Armistice
by may7fic
Summary: A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Preseries.
1. Ch 1  Battle Lines

**Armistice**

**Summary:** A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues.

**Rating:** T, language. "F-bombs" in abundance, if not excess.

**Spoilers:** None but for the quote from "Bugs" shown below.

**Disclaimers:** See my profile page.

**Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings:** 1) Still testing the waters, I'm using John's POV to tell my story this time. With that in mind and working with the _"Sam's been gone 2 years"_ premise, it's March, 2004, roughly six months since Sam left for Stanford and John's still bitter, so his thoughts _are_ unkind at times. Adhering to canon here so I'm afraid Sammy only makes a cameo appearance in this fic. Despite his absence, I hope you'll feel his _presence_ all through the story.

2) Though I'm not posting the story in its entirety today, it **is** written to completion and has been reviewed by my beta-readers. My plan is to address the betas and site formatting each chapter at a time, allowing no more than a week between posts, until all 9 chapters are posted.

3) Thanks to my wonderful best buddy and beta, Penny for pinch-hitting and improving my work as always. Thanks also to Beki for the food for thought and very useful advice.

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_"Even when you two weren't talking, he used to swing by Stanford whenever he could, keep an eye on you, make sure you were safe." Bugs, episode 1.07_

Chapter 1 - Battle Lines

John Winchester was pissed. And he had Jim Murphy to blame. For all of it. Jim, with his oh-so sincere delivery, trying to convince John that going on this hunt couldn't hurt. Wouldn't make matters worse. "If anything, it might heal some wounds still festering after all these months," he'd said. _Yeah, right._ John may have said yes to the job but any other side-trips Jim had envisioned - let's say to, oh, I don't know, California, maybe? - were definitely out of the question.

Unfortunately the seed had firmly been planted in Dean's head though and all John wanted to do now was kick Jim Murphy's ass. Christ, six months ago John had already alienated - no, check that, exiled - one son and if this night kept deteriorating any further, he'd be rapidly working his way into running a one-man operation.

_Fucking Jim._

John felt no shame in cursing the man. John already knew where his one-way ticket was headed. Cussing out Jim would only help ensure he'd stay in the express lane.

Things had been awkward enough with Dean ever since Sam had stomped out their door but now, now that they were _thisclose_ to the State line, Dean seemed to think behaving like his brother was on the program for the evening. Like that would help. _What the hell is it about California that brings out insubordination in my kids? _

All right, so he knew the attraction for his youngest had been that full ride. And escape, apparently but John had no intention of going there. . . his mood was foul enough as it was, thank-you very little. Kid got himself a scholarship, to Stanford, no less. Always knew the little shit was too smart for his own good. _For our own good._

And Dean, well, aside from the plentiful bubble-headed bleach blondes _(thank-you, Don Henley)_ that were turning his head back at the coffee shop and bar near the motel, Dean was here simply because it was another job. But he was acting out this way because of Sam. "And you know you only have yourself to thank for that, John," echoed in his head. _Thank-you, Pastor Jim._ Or as Dean might say, _Pastor Obvious._

_Fucking pile of rock should've slid off the continent decades ago._

"You know it's only four hours from here, Dad." The kid was not letting up.

John groaned. Trying desperately to keep from growling. Suddenly his shovel felt pretty damn good in his hands as he gouged it deeper into the grave. Envisioning the annihilation of Jim's self-satisfied smirk with every bite of earth the spade carved.

"Even less, if I do the driving."

"Dean, I said no," he barked, trying to keep the venom from his voice but knowing his tone was still too harsh. Why couldn't Dean let this go? It was after 1:00 a.m., they were in the middle of a hunt, and John was trying to be understanding. Even volunteered to do the dirty work and dig up Peter Wellington's grave instead of flipping a coin like they'd normally do. Well, _normal_, as defined now since Sam had left.

Bad idea in hindsight; gave Dean too much time to stand there with a flashlight and salt-gun and think. Calculate. Hard labor would've done the kid some good. Take out his frustrations. John would happily switch places with Dean now but he'd already felt the familiar solidity of wood beneath that last scoop he'd dug, so there'd be no point in trading off. At least something had gone right tonight. The spirit would be history in no time.

Truthfully, he'd felt awfully bad for tearing a strip off Dean last night. And the night before. Today.

_Shit. _

Kid missed his brother. John understood that. Really. Didn't change a goddamn thing.

Sammy'd made his choice and, whether Palo Alto was four days or four hours away, nothing was going to change that boy's mind. Not even his big brother.

John knew Dean had tried calling his brother; knew Sam wasn't answering or returning Dean's calls. Information was something Jim Murphy was good for at least. Hell, Jim was the first to open John's eyes to the resurgence of Dean's silences. And once John was reminded to look past his own misery and self-flagellation, it didn't take him long to recognize the signs from Dean either: that lack of spark and a too-familiar resigned submission. That dark pall of abandonment cloaking his oldest son almost as wholly as it had more than two decades before.

Dean might _think_ he knew what he wanted but John knew better. And there was no way in hell John was going to risk Sammy kicking his brother in the teeth while Dean was already down. Oh, Sam would never consciously target Dean, but Dean would throw himself into the line of fire. _Every fucking time._ John knew this firsthand because he was an expert marksman himself and, after the last time the three Winchesters shared the same breathing space, John wasn't certain Dean could survive another ricochet let alone a direct hit. Sure as hell didn't deserve it, despite John's own evidence to the contrary these last couple days.

Even though John might not be able to control his own ill temper as well as he'd hoped, he sure as hell could control whether or not a trip to Palo Alto was in the cards.

"Then, I'm going without you."

Alrighty then, apparently John's control was up for debate now too. Time to squash this like a cockroach. He was still running this show.

"Jesus, Dean, enough already," he yelled, stopping the excavation long enough to level a hard gaze at his son. Despite the cover of night, he couldn't miss the look of defiance on Dean's face, reminding him too much of Sam and raising his hackles higher. "Get your head in the game, goddamn it, and keep that light steady. I'm almost there."

The requisite "yes, sir" was absent but at least Dean had the good sense to refrain from saying anything else he might've considered while John cleaned off the remaining layers of dirt coating Wellington's coffin. Using the blade of the shovel's scoop, John easily hacked through the splintering wood, exposing the remains of one irate ghost presently turning a newlywed couple's dream home into a nightmare.

Satisfied everything was in order to execute a standard salt and burn, he tossed the spade up to ground level then reached up to his eldest for the container of salt. No words were necessary. Whether Dean was pissed with his old man or not, they both could perform this routine blindfolded.

Which was why Dean not relinquishing his grip on the salt felt so out of place. Father and son worked together like veterans of an assembly line. Hell, Henry Ford would've been impressed. Didn't matter which of them stood up top or below, John and Dean Winchester always worked in sync.

John looked up into Dean's face, not all that easy to read when the only light available was pointing away from the kid. Still, when their eyes met John could have cringed at the way Dean was working his jaw, clenching in Sammy-like determination, clearly unwilling to release his hold on the salt until he had his say.

"Dad, I'm serious here," and John knew he was. Boy rarely used this assertive tone with him. Only ever did when the subject was Sam. No surprise really then when he said, "You can stay at the motel or come with; I don't care. But I'm heading for Stanford come daylight."

"Like hell you--"

If John hadn't been working so hard alternately trying to smash Jim's smugness along with Dean's rebelliousness into the night, he might've noticed the sudden drop in temperature and subsequent increase in wind. As it was, the only warning that Peter Wellington's spirit wasn't actually bound to the house he'd died in was the fact that it had presently appeared directly behind Dean, elevated slightly thanks to a decided disregard for gravity, and was hovering with that evil-incarnate sneer that only things other-worldly seemed to possess.

There was no hesitation on John's part, aside from his eyes widening at the moment of realization; he couldn't have acted more quickly if he'd been Superman himself.

And still it wasn't enough. Again, words weren't necessary and Dean's eyes flared in alarm as years of training took over and, in an instant, John's eldest released the flashlight and dropped to the ground. Grabbing up the cocked salt-gun he'd relinquished in lieu of the salt, he rolled to his back, firing instantaneously. But at this too-close range, with the ghost already upon him, enveloping him, his shot had no choice but to go wide.

"Fuck!" Both father and son swore in unison as the situation, bad as it was, went straight to hell as Dean was ruthlessly catapulted across four rows of headstones. Landing, now weaponless, with an appalling sounding grunt, well away from and out of John's sight.

"Dean! No!" John screamed, scrambling up out of the grave and gathering up the fallen salt-gun while already in pursuit, chasing after the evil specter that was now stalking his son. The gun had one shot left and John had to resist every paternal instinct shouting at him to just fire the damn thing, fire it now, instead of waiting until he was within range. Until that fucker Wellington was practically on top of Dean once again, before taking aim.

Dean hadn't moved nor made a sound and John had to tamp down the worry threatening to wrench him out of his control and, for the moment, ignore his boy's crumpled form and concentrate on the menace advancing on his son. He couldn't shake off the role of dad completely though and when he pulled the trigger, he practically growled at the apparition reaching again for Dean, "Don't you fucking touch him, you sonofabitch."

The ghost evaporated in a haze of scattering dust and salt and John continued his forward momentum, dropping to his knees next to his fallen son. Dean was breathing, thank God, but slumped awkwardly against an ornate, granite monument, the biggest one in the row. Of course.

Eyes hurriedly scanning his son, John's breath hitched in dismay at the unsettling sight. _Oh, shit. This does not look good._ But for one arm resting above his head, presumably thrown outward to provide protection from the impact with the cluster of headstones he'd been hurled into, Dean's limbs were curled inward as he lay on his side. A wholly unnatural and disturbing position for John to find the adult Dean at rest in. It reminded too much of Mary's little Dean, and John definitely could not afford to get caught up in those memories.

There was still too much at stake.

Lightly grasping Dean's nearest shoulder, John jostled it slightly, swallowing the bitterness working its way up his throat, before coaxing, no demanding, "Dean, c'mon, son. Wake-up for me, damn it," and getting nothing in response. Nothing. _Please, God, let him wake up. He always wakes up._

Practiced hands, though alien in their hesitancy, searched for injury and none could be found anywhere but for a nasty, ominous gash high on Dean's forehead, open and leaking blood. John cursed at the sight, allowed his simmering anger to build and steady his traitorous hands, channeling his mounting fear and guilt into the emotion that had always served him best in battle. He could always handle rage better than grief in a fight.

"Sorry, sport," he murmured, drawing a penlight from his pocket and shining the narrow beam first into one deftly prodded open eye and then the other. "Shit," he sighed heavily at Dean's unequal pupils. _Concussion._ Not surprising, given what had happened and the fact Dean was still out cold but John couldn't fault himself the false hope that Dean was okay and would come to any second. He was the kid's dad after all. Irrational hope sprung eternal as John applied steady pressure to the gash, wishing the discomfort would awaken Dean, if not now, then as he wrapped the wound in his dad's now discarded over-shirt.

Still nothing. Nothing at all. "Damn it, Dean. C'mon, wake the fuck up."

Every ounce of medical training John had acquired over the years commanded him to call 9-1-1, wait for an ambulance and not dare risk any further injury to his oldest. But hunter's instinct and experience told him he didn't have that choice. Wellington would be back - it was a wonder he hadn't resurfaced already - so there was simply no way in hell John could just sit there and wait for help while fending off the powerful entity that had taken a decided dislike toward his kid. Nor could he finish off the bastard and risk having to explain a fire and a desecrated grave to the local cops who would undoubtedly answer the 9-1-1 call as well.

So, with a silent prayer asking for both forgiveness and help from Mary, he reached for the salt-gun, intending to ready it again before moving Dean.

No sooner had he relinquished his hold on Dean and begun to load two new shells, Wellington literally swooped in on a gust of chilled air and grabbed Dean by his out-flung arm, dragging him away from John as if Dean were a toy trailing behind the psychotic child who'd claimed him.

"No fucking way!" John cried out in fury, giving chase again and firing the gun - both barrels this time - at the spirit that had set its sights on Dean. John seldom missed what he was aiming at and, with so much to lose, his skills were especially lethal. Wellington, incensed and fairly howling with shock and rage, vanished into the night once again but not before cruelly dumping Dean, defenseless and out of John's reach yet again, to the ground in another motionless heap.

Wellington hadn't gotten very far at all before being sidelined by the rock-salt so the hunter quickly made his way over to his son. Increasingly dismayed that Dean still had not uttered a sound nor moved a muscle since his ordeal began, John could feel his own fury overtaking him as he hunkered down next to him, once again taking in the image of this crumpled version of his perpetually resilient son. Christ, Dean was as durable as a Timex and his father was having one hell of a time reconciling that picture of Dean with the one lying unconscious at his feet.

"All right, kiddo. You just hang in there," he breathed. Clamping down on his most intense emotions, he spoke softly to Dean as he carefully checked and rearranged the makeshift bandage he'd placed earlier around Dean's head. Lightly patting the kid's chest, he steeled himself. "This ends now," he vowed. "I'm ending it."

Convinced that, before he could do anything more for Dean, he had no choice but to eliminate the most immediate threat they faced, John gathered his son in his arms, cradling him against his chest and carrying him over to the excavated grave. Placing him a safe distance from the impending flames but still nearby, John rested Dean's head atop the jacket he'd removed before starting to dig up the grave. Back when he'd believed the worst thing he'd have to deal with this night was Dean aggravating the hell out of him. Back when he'd been a fucking stubborn fool.

Generously sprinkling a protection circle around Dean, he then emptied the remainder of the salt into the grave and quickly doused the coffin and its remains with what was clearly an excessive amount of lighter fluid. John didn't care. Peter Wellington was going to fry.

Striking a match, John flipped it into the grave and, as the contents went up in bursts of flame, he dove toward Dean, draping himself over his son. Cradling Dean's head in the crook of his arms and using his body as a shield against the blaze's sparks and debris, John kept his senses alert, aware that he was also sheltering Dean from the very real possibility of Wellington trying to make a last ditch effort to go after him.

Just as John suspected, what could only be described as an enraged wail suddenly echoed through the trees and bounced off the gravestones as newly erupted winds whipped and whirled around John and his son. The flurry lasted only a second or two before disappearing as quickly as it had arrived and, as the cemetery abruptly became ethereally quiet, John knew the danger to Dean that had been Peter Wellington was over.

He didn't get up though, couldn't pull away. Knowing that damage had already been done.

Dean had remained unaware, oblivious to this latest attack and its aftermath and, now that the threat was gone, John found himself once again facing the stark reality of Dean's predicament. Hell, Dean should be cursing now, fuming over the abuse inflicted by Wellington, or at least cracking jokes about the ghost's preference for him, not John. Using humor in an attempt to assuage John's guilt just like he'd been doing nearly every damn day since he'd joined his father in the hunt.

Finally gathering his wits, John collected their supplies, brought them over to the nearby Impala and unceremoniously deposited them into the trunk. Wasting no time, John returned for his son, gently hefting him into his arms once again and carrying him over to the sedan. "Easy does it," he said, as he carefully slid Dean into the back seat, giving the kid a running commentary of what he was doing. He knew full well that Dean couldn't hear him but the silence had become too damn oppressive. And John would rather hear his own voice than the one sounding off in his head right then, the one telling him, in no uncertain terms, that all this movement was doing Dean more harm than good.

Stubbornly ignoring the over-grown twenty-year-old invading his thoughts, John continued tending to Dean, elevating his legs, pillowing his head, and placing a blanket over the kid's limp form before reluctantly turning away, closing the door and climbing into the driver's seat.

St. Mary's Regional their destination, Todd Rundgren's thunderous guitar from _Bat Out of Hell_ fittingly accompanying the Chevy's roar as John raced out of the cemetery, burning rubber in a way Dean was never, ever permitted to do even now that the car was his. But that was okay. John would willingly let Dean chew him out over it. John would endure anything, if only Dean would just wake the hell up.

To be continued.


	2. Ch 2 FUBAR

**Armistice**

**Summary:** A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Will be 9 chapters.

**Rating:** T, language.

**Spoilers:** None.

**Disclaimers:** See my profile page.

**Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings:** Thanks again to Penny for her beta-reading awesomeness and to Beki for helping keep my imagination in line. Thanks also to everyone who sent such encouraging feedback for chapter 1 or have placed the story on alert. I hope the balance of the fic lives up to your expectations.

* * *

Chapter 2 - FUBAR 

John hated hospitals, especially the bigger city ones. Those with their procedures on top of protocols, sophisticated databases with direct links to insurance companies, and cold, distant doctors and nurses who cared more about HMO's and paperwork than they did one beat up kid. Every one of them seemingly indifferent to the lost souls steadfastly watching the clock, rooted to the E/R's nauseatingly pastel waiting room, desperate for news of any kind.

Reno's St. Mary's fell under this category. If it weren't for the fact that their brand spanking new CT-scan and MRI units were considered state of the art by the too-young George Clooney look-alike attending to Dean, John would have already barged through those doors marked "No Entry" and hauled Dean's ass out of there. He'd have felt a hell of a lot better tracking down a compassionate country doctor with a secretary/nurse/wife that truly wanted to take care of his son.

Twenty minutes before, at just shy of 3:00 a.m., Doctor Ross - or was it Rowe? - had finally parted the swinging doors barricading John from his son. Granting him an audience long enough to proclaim that Dean's only injuries were a _significant_ concussion along with the gash on his head and that he was still unconscious. Sonofabitch hadn't seemed to appreciate John's, "Tell me something I don't know."

Christ, thirty seconds with a penlight had told John that already. What he wanted, needed, to know was why the hell Dean wasn't awake yet?

Which brought him back to the present. Standing in front of the elevators waiting for a ride to transport him to yet another set of walls filled with strangers whispering and pretending to read outdated magazines. Dean had already been wheeled off for the CT-scan, out some secret passageway apparently, nowhere near his dad's line of sight. They needed to get a look inside Dean's head, determine the extent of the unwanted pressure possibly messing with his brain and then, once the scan was done, he'd be admitted to the fourth floor for observation. Fine with John, as long as he was doing the observing.

He'd had three cups of bitter black coffee since he'd driven the Impala into the emergency bay, blasting the horn and demanding help for his son. He didn't actually need the caffeine, adrenaline and a parent's waking nightmare providing enough stimulus to keep him hopped up for days. But the trips to and from the complimentary coffeemaker had helped kill time and the paper cup held between his hands kept them from punching something. . . or someone.

Not nearly soon enough, the doors parted open and John pitched his latest coffee into the trash before stepping into the elevator, punching _four_ and apparently, though quite unintentionally, herding three elderly Asians and a candy-striper into the corner opposite him. Dean always told John, with a certain degree of admiration; he could back down a pissed-off Kodiak. Came in handy most of the time.

Funny how a five foot fuck-all nurse with a touch of grey hair could damn near bring him to his knees.

"Are you Dean Wyman's father?" She asked worriedly, still scanning the other people stepping off the elevator with John. She'd clearly been looking for him. John felt his intestines twist into knots, then slither and roil until he wanted nothing more than to hurl.

"Yeah - uh - yes," John faltered as he stepped away from the lobby, his voice raspy and rough and completely foreign to his own ears. Clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders, regaining something of the military bearing his youngest loathed and his oldest often emulated, he asked, "Why? Where's my son? How's Dean?" The rapid-fire and return of his usual no-nonsense tone making the tiny little thing balk.

The woman had grit though, must have had experience dealing with the stressed-out friends and family of her patients because no sooner had John made her flinch, she inhaled deeply, and then reached out with both hands to grasp his arm and begin guiding him down a hallway. "Let's talk on the way, I'll explain everything I can," she encouraged, leading John toward another set of swinging doors, this time bearing signs reading "St. Mary's Imaging Services" and, more ominously, the notorious "No Entry".

So why were they allowing a civilian past those hallowed doors?

_Oh, Dean._

Apparently feeling John tense, Carol - or Karen, whatever the hell she'd said - coaxed him with a tug, starting into the promised explanation. "We were getting your son ready for his CT-scan, Mr. Wyman, when he started showing signs of regaining consciousness."

John's steps faltered. "Dean's awake? Is he all right?" That odd breathless quality in his voice was hope. He hadn't heard it in a while, hadn't had much use for it. Or faith in it. Still he recognized it, sounded just like Sammy begging to stay one more semester in whatever backwater they'd happened to be living in at any given time. He only prayed he'd have more success than poor Sam with his long track record of disappointments.

Her name-tag stated "Sr. Carol Riley, OP" with "Chaplain" beneath in smaller print and John couldn't help but balk at the sight. _Sister_ Carol? Shit. So she wasn't a nurse after all but a freakin' nun of some sort. Minus the Sally Field habit, though. _Perfect. Just. Perfect._

Immediately shaking off his bitterness - after all, Jim was a servant of God too _and_ an ally of John's, despite his recent thoughts to the contrary - John decided he really couldn't care less at this point who she was. Queen Elizabeth or Heidi Fleiss, it didn't matter. . . this woman was taking him to his son.

"He is awake but, he's highly agitated, Mr. Wyman," and that was all John needed to spur him onward again.

She tried to grasp his arm once more but John avoided her limited reach, knew where he was headed now and sure as shit didn't need an escort. "Mr. Wyman, please."

She was goddamn lucky she was a woman, never mind a nun. Hospital must've planned it this way, siccing the little thing on him. He'd sure as hell have steam-rolled a man by now. About to straight arm his way through the doors, her gentle plea held him back. Pausing, resting his hands on his hips, he focused his gaze on the off-white tiles beneath his boots, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a few calming breaths before daring to speak. "It's John. Call me John," he said not unkindly before continuing with a little more bite. "Carol? All due respect, Sister, but just spit it out, all right?"

If she took offense to the tone or anything he'd said, John didn't know. He kept his gaze averted, knowing full well that his eyes were flashing danger and, really, in the end he needed this woman on his side. On Dean's side.

"Of course, John," she said, patient. John finally met her eyes and his own softened at the almost amused expression she wore. Clearly she wasn't offended and apparently, now that they'd made eye contact, she was ready to continue. "Dr. Rowe will explain things further but I can tell you that your son's heightened anxiety is not at all uncommon with a concussion, particularly when the frontal lobe is affected."

John knew this, read up on it when necessary. Memory loss, lack of impulse control, moods and emotions out of whack, he'd heard it before. Hated it. "Could just be shock, couldn't it?" Kicking himself, knowing shock could be just as lethal. Still, Dean was safe here, the doctors could monitor him. Head injuries were a different kettle, more tricky.

"Possibly," she answered, the caution in her voice echoing in John's head, mocking his hopefulness, almost sing-songing, 'but we don't think so.' She didn't voice it though, instead went on to explain, "Either way, Dr. Rowe wanted someone to find you, see if you can settle him down so that they can do the scan without sedation."

"Sedation?" John asked, voice elevated in alarm. He thought that sedatives were only used with the worst head injuries -- when patients got violent or had to be placed on a ventilator.

The Sister must have read his distress because she grasped his arm again, urging him on with a "Come, let's go" and pushed through the doors, leading him down the corridor. "Dean's just confused and very distraught, John. And he's asking for you."

Immensely relieved to know his boy was talking, the knots strangling John's guts loosened marginally. Briefly his mind flitted toward guardedness, concern that Dean wouldn't be well enough to keep his alias. He let that worry go. His son was hurt, upset and needed his father and, though he hated the why of it, John felt something inside his chest ease, give just a little. Warming and melting like the beginnings of a spring thaw.

* * *

At the first glimpse of Dean since John had been sent packing from the E/R, he felt ice cold seep back into his bones. He couldn't actually see his kid's face as he and Sister Carol approached the glass doors of the imaging room, blocked as he was by the lab-coat wearing form of a doctor. But, the white knuckled grip Dean had on the gurney was obvious and more than enough to propel John through the door without knocking or waiting for an invitation.

"Dean!" He called out, no doubt louder than he should have but it resulted in the desired effect. The seas parted and Doctor Rowe backed away as did the two other people in the room, presumably technicians or orderlies. John didn't give a rat's ass, as long as they moved the hell out of his way.

"--_dad_--"

_Oh Christ, that just does not sound like Dean._ Though he sounded too damn weak, the kid's pain, fear, and relief came through crystal clear. And if that wasn't bad enough, Dean's eyes shone a too vivid green, their color intensified by contrasting red rims and pools of wetness threatening to overflow. Dean just didn't do tears, hadn't in a long time as far as John knew. At least not in front of him.

"Right here," John answered as he reached Dean's side. Though uneasy and unused to Dean's emotional display, before he even realized it, something akin to instinct had him awkwardly grasping the outstretched hand that had released its grip on the gurney and now held on, vice-like, belying Dean's weakened state.

Dean was clearly in agony, those expressive eyes blinking and squinting against the room's brightness, the small hitches of breath that resonated like spikes driven into John's chest every time Dean even dared consider moving his head. Hell, this entire hand-holding _Beaches_ moment was flashing in livid accusation: _look how badly your son is hurt. _

In neon. _Fuck_.

"Dad, I-I can't--I don't--God!"

"Dean, hey, easy now. Settle down." Appalled by the disjointed words and Dean's frustration and near panic, John spoke softly but sternly, throwing a touch of command into his voice. Dean always responded well to John's orders, but it was tough demanding obedience when your kid was so messed up. Leaning over the guardrail, John lowered himself nearer to Dean's level and placed his free arm across the kid's chest in an effort to steady him. Once he felt the tension ease in the heaving muscles beneath his forearm, he set out to decode his son's gibberish. Squeezing the fingers still entwined with his for good measure, he asked, "So, what's this I hear about you giving these people a hard time?"

Dean's anxious gaze shot toward the doctor before returning to his father. "Sorry," he whispered, but John knew the apology was meant for him and not the medical team behind him. John just didn't know what it was for.

"Dean?"

Despite John's certainty that he'd already used his name since walking into this oversized fish tank, seeing the flash of relief in Dean's eyes upon hearing it gave John reason to suspect his earlier concerns about their current aliases were more than valid. As if to confirm this, Dean suddenly blurted, albeit in a whisper, "I can't remember anything, Dad."

At Dean's confession, a lone tear finally escaped and John had to work to hide his dismay and swallow the lump that had lodged in his throat. It was getting to him. No doubt about it. Even though he knew the waterworks were a result of pain and the concussion, John still felt guilty as hell that the extra burden of having to remember the_ con_ was probably the final straw for Dean tonight. John didn't need Sam here to tell him how unfair that was and, though his younger son's absence was equally unfair to Dean, John was grateful for it. He wouldn't be able to handle Sammy's wrath or condemnation right now.

Trying to be reassuring, John smiled, though a little sadly, "It's okay, Dean. You will." Redirecting his attention to the doctor and the chaplain, who had apparently shepherded the medical staff a respectful distance away from Dean's bedside, he nodded appreciatively and said, "Right, doc?"

The doctor, who really didn't seem to appreciate the appellation, apparently took John's question as permission to return to his patient. John granted it, knew they had to get this show on the road. Rowe approached, looked as though he was about to pat Dean on the shoulder but, seeing Dean's obvious discomfort, must've changed his mind. Either that or maybe it was his father's glare -- John couldn't be sure.

"In almost all cases, yes," Doctor Rowe responded, clearing his throat after a moment of uncomfortable silence. Addressing John, he explained, "After a concussion, memory issues are common and Dean here," he paused then, as though suddenly realizing something, then focused his attention on the patient in question. "Did you recognize your name?"

Dean looked unusually nervous but nodded his head abruptly, clearly regretting the action immediately as a pain-filled gasp parted his lips. "Easy, dude," John soothed, no longer surprising himself when he easily returned the impossibly tighter grip Dean had on his hand.

"How about we try for verbal answers only, all right?" The doctor suggested more than a little condescendingly and John had the sudden urge to deck the guy. "We need to keep Dean calm." The latter admonishment clearly meant for John.

"Right. Because you were doing such a bang up job of that before I got here." John couldn't help himself, he was pissed. Finally relinquishing Dean's hand, he straightened, turned and fixed a murderous glare at the man.

"Dad, please."

If it weren't for his kid's pain-laced plea, John would've punched the arrogant sonofabitch. Well, that and Sister Carol inserting herself between him and the doctor.

"And that's why we brought you here, John," she said forcefully. Watching her try to back down two men, both of whom were more than a head taller than her, would have been damn near comical if not for the fact that Dean was hurting so bad. Rowe backed off first, the only acceptable outcome as far as John was concerned. He might be placing his son's care in their hands but that didn't mean he'd let these people walk all over him.

"Yes, well, let's get back to it then," Rowe continued, clearly flustered by their minor exchange. "Dean, do you remember your last name?"

In the short time he'd spent with Dean since walking into this room, John had quickly come to two conclusions: one, Dean knew exactly who he was, and two, the kid had suffered enough memory loss to not have a clue who he was _supposed_ to be.

He could have groaned, the reason behind Dean's anxiety hitting him full bore. John was aware that memory loss of events that took place just prior to getting a concussion was pretty common and, since they'd only left Minnesota with their new I.D.'s a few days ago, Dean was more than likely screwed.

Not surprisingly, at the doctor's question, Dean's eyes widened and darted to John, who could only grimace and hope that Dean would catch the almost imperceptible headshake John was sending his way, hoping he'd understand that "no" was a better answer than "Winchester".

Dean must have understood and croaked out, "No," before sending an imploring gaze to his dad and adding, "I'm sorry."

Bad enough Dean was hurting like this, he looked so damn defeated and remorseful, John felt like crawling under a rock. "'S okay, sport," he sighed, giving Dean's nearest shoulder a light pat. Definitely out of practice, this fatherly affection thing was getting easier. The guilt helped, John supposed. It offered a great incentive.

"No worries, Dean. I'm sure it will come," Doctor Rowe added and John grudgingly felt grateful for the man's input. Until the bastard asked his next question. "Let's try numbers then. How about your address?"

"Uh, doc? Why don't you try his birthday?" John spoke up before Dean had to struggle with yet another impossible question. They were going to start thinking serious brain damage soon if they didn't come up with another line of questions. Hell, John couldn't even remember the Wyman and son fabricated address at the moment.

Before the doctor could object to or question John's reasoning, Dean answered, gasped really. "January 24th. Seventy-nine."

Looking to John for confirmation and getting it, Rowe almost absently muttered, "Good, good," before making some notes on Dean's chart. Apparently satisfied that Dean wasn't quite as addled as he first thought, Rowe explained that they still needed to do the CT-scan to look for any potentially serious bleeding. Though John could tell by the way Dean tensed up that he wasn't happy about the test, his father wasn't going to refuse it. Wasn't about to take the risk. Hell, wasn't that what the Wyman's insurance plan was for?

To be continued.


	3. Ch 3 SNAFU

**Armistice**

**Summary:** A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Will be 9 chapters.

**Rating:** T, language.

**Spoilers:** None.

**Disclaimers:** See my profile page.

**Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings:** Big thanks as always to Penny for her beta-reading awesomeness and I'd like to thank Heather for so willingly jumping on board to add her invaluable medical expertise. Jennie, too for the impromptu grammar checks. . . you're all making this story better because of your input. Thanks also to everyone who is still reading and especially those who take the time to send feedback. It's truly appreciated.

* * *

Chapter 3 - SNAFU 

All right, John was willing to admit it. A cup of caffeine seemed like a hell of a good idea about now. Sister Carol had popped in and offered to grab him a refill about a half hour earlier but John had declined. Had still been pretty pumped and was nursing a piss warm one she'd already given him before anyway. Now he felt like he was fading. He'd finished that last cup but didn't want to slip out of the room now, not this close to eight o'clock. They'd be in soon to check on Dean again, wake him up _again_, ask those necessary questions _again_. John hoped Dean would retain something of what he'd told him after his first check-up at six. After the doctor and nurses had cleared out and he'd had a minute alone to talk to him. Dean had been so exhausted though and still hurting so bad, John highly doubted the name "Wyman" or anything else he'd said would stick.

Hell, the kid could barely keep his eyes open during that first wake-up check but thank God he _had_ finally woken up. It had taken precisely long enough for John to become petrified, fear that Dean had slipped into a coma while his dad had been sitting mere inches away from him, oblivious. Even now, the thought of those agonizing few minutes spent trying to rouse Dean made him feel light-headed and heartsick. The relief when those long lashes finally fluttered open, in recognition no less, had nearly driven John to his knees.

After the CT-scan, they'd wheeled Dean into this room, hooked him up to an IV and oxygen, along with just enough monitors to ensure that John felt lower than pond scum and then told them both to get some sleep. They'd be back later to check on Dean. John had wanted to talk then but one look at those exhausted, too pale features and John had relented. Pulling a chair up next to the bed, he'd lowered the rail and rested his arm alongside the length of his son's. Dean had long since released the stranglehold on John's hand, his previous clinginess replaced with a milder, half-awake version of the tough guy façade Dean had mastered long ago. John couldn't help the soft smile that crept across his face, never thinking he'd ever apply the word _clingy_ to the adult Dean. Oh, how Dean would hate that. But still, John had seen through the kid's mask and knew by the way those imploring eyes had tracked his every move that Dean had wanted his dad nearby. Guilt and warmth had poured into his soul then and John had leaned closer, his fingers lightly brushing the top of his son's hand, remaining there as Dean slept.

John hadn't seen Rowe in a while now, didn't think the man's shift would be over yet but wasn't complaining about the absence. Good riddance as far as he was concerned. Clearly the jerk knew his craft but John didn't like him. Didn't like his judgmental huffs after John had told his story about why Dean wouldn't remember his address. . . that they'd packed up and moved ages ago and were road-tripping cross country. It was the best John could come up with under the circumstances and something he'd hoped Dean could latch onto once he'd been fed the spiel.

Once Rowe had shown up with the preliminary test results, John had actually been able to relax, just a little, breathe again. The scan looked promising; thank Christ, so now they were treating the injury with less gravity. Weren't worried about brain damage so much. Of course, John didn't need Rowe or eight years of college to remind him that any concussion was still serious. All he had to do was look at his son, with his unusually slack, practically translucent features and eyes sunk deep into shadowed hollows, to know that his kid was still very sick. And he'd feel a hell of a lot more confident in those results once Dean could actually carry on a conversation or be able to stay awake for more than mere minutes at a time.

Speaking of which, John checked his watch, frowning, then compared it to the one on the wall. They agreed, just as they should have since John had synchronized his to the wall clock when Dean had fallen asleep that first time. It was already 8:07, damn it, and no one had shown up yet to look in on Dean. Tight ship they ran around here.

John had no patience for this, sitting idly waiting for the nurses to do something he was perfectly capable of doing himself. Though the admission left a bitter taste in his mouth, he couldn't deny that this wasn't the first hunt that had ended up going south with a Winchester out cold. And shamefully, he couldn't even say he preferred it when _he_ was the one down for the count. Though he loathed seeing either of his boys hurt, John was definitely no good to them knocked out of commission himself. So long as he was conscious, he could keep his sons alive. It was a hunter's warped logic, he knew. Something he hoped Dean understood, knew Sammy didn't.

The thought of his youngest sent a shiver down John's spine at the same time he felt his blood pressure spike. God, Sammy would be having a self-righteous field day over this. John's imagination didn't have to work overtime to envision the daggers Sam would be shooting in his direction about now. The snide comments whispered only out of respect for his injured brother's much needed sleep. John could hear the accusations pin-balling in his head. . . he should never have considered digging up that grave without making sure the spirit was bound to the house; never should have stepped into that cemetery distracted as he was, as they both were; never should have let his temper cloud the rest of his senses; never should have left Dean up top with no-one there to watch his back; never should have driven Sam away so there'd be no-one watching out for De--

"Damn it!" He practically growled, abruptly putting an end to his runaway thoughts and shoving off of and away from the chair.

He was across the room in a few long strides and staring out the window before the still resonating echo enlightened him on just how loud his sudden movements had been. Despite the hour, the fourth floor was still as hushed as a library and John was being about as subtle as a Huey taking off under enemy fire. Appalled at his loss of control, John couldn't prevent the groan from escaping his lips when he heard the telltale rustling and creaking that signified Dean was waking up. Despite the hint of shame he felt in being responsible for Dean waking before the nurse got there, he couldn't deny the immense relief he felt that the kid had stirred without too much prompting.

Swiftly making his way over to the bed, he placed a restraining hand on Dean's shoulder, anticipating the worst; that Dean might wake up disoriented and do something stupid like hurt himself trying to get out of bed in unfamiliar territory. "Easy, it's just me," John reassured as he felt Dean tense under his firm hold.

"Unh--Dad?" Dean's voice sounded raw and shaky but John still couldn't help but bow his head and smile, relieved that Dean recognized his voice, thankful his memory hadn't regressed. Unaware until this very moment that particular concern had even been plaguing him.

"Yeah, I'm here," he responded, the hand restraining Dean now smoothing what he'd hoped were soothing circles on the kid's chest. The motion had worked to settle both his boys in their youth when they'd woken up in strange places, or worse, woken from night terrors, both encountered and imagined. He was out of practice but it didn't feel as awkward as he'd anticipated, discovering that this part of fatherhood - this affection - was a bit like riding a bike. He never really forgot how, just didn't have occasion to do it much anymore.

Not since Sam had started to resist and Dean had followed suit. Hurt by it, John had pulled back too, eventually realizing too late that, in Dean's case, the resistance had been his eldest's way of making Sam's rebellion seem less blatant. By the time of that realization though, both of his sons had grown into young men and John had figured he'd missed his chance to reestablish it with Dean. If not for a concussion's side-effects, it probably was still too late but, for now, the way Dean was sinking further into his bed, John realized the TLC was working too well, sending Dean back into la-la-land. "Hey," he said, roughly patting him now instead. "Why don't you open up those eyes and see for yourself?"

"Don't wanna," he slurred and then added, "Sir," seemingly as an afterthought.

If he didn't know that Dean was obviously in pain, John could have laughed at the memories his kid's reluctance evoked. He supposed he should be worried over Dean's sluggish speech, but this reminded him so much of the teenager who didn't want to drag his ass out of bed to go to school, as opposed to the eager hunter he grew into, that John didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He chose neither, instead resorting to a tried and true response. "Well, that's just too bad, princess, but it's gonna hurt a hell of a lot worse when someone comes in and tries to scald the corneas out of your head. Might as well suck it up now, get 'em used to daylight."

"--all heart--," Dean grumbled, eyes still closed, and John did grin this time. Despite the concussion, Dean was all there, John was sure of it. Just might take a few days for his smartass son to make a full comeback. Patiently he waited, watching as the kid furrowed his brow, working too hard at processing his father's words. Emotions in flux, John suddenly felt unusually queasy as he watched that bruised and newly stitched up souvenir from his son's too close brush with death moving up and down in his hairline. Once again those lashes bequeathed to him by Mary fluttered in an attempt to open, eventually revealing twin slivers of hazel-green before parting almost fully.

Seemingly becoming aware of his surroundings, Dean reached for the line trailing from the cannula beneath his nose and John abruptly stilled Dean's movements with a light smack and a sharp, "No. Leave it alone."

Immediately Dean's gaze fixed on John's and John could read the confusion there before Dean even had to ask, "Hospital?"

_Damn_. John was really hoping Dean's memory would be in a hell of a lot better shape than this. They'd already covered this territory after all. "I'm afraid so, dude," he replied, sympathy seeping back into his voice.

"Sonofa--," Dean paused, now staring at the IV in the back of his hand, obviously still trying and failing to remember. "What happened?" He asked after a moment, bracing his elbows against the mattress as though about sit up.

"Not so fast, hotshot," John cautioned, holding Dean in place. The restraint failed to steady Dean's head however which rocked forward slightly before falling back against his pillow. The movement wasn't much but it was enough to cause a lot of hurt. The pain had to be extreme, though the cry torn from Dean's throat was typically understated. John knew how much Dean abhorred showing pain in front of his father; had himself to blame for that, a fact both Sam and Jim were all too happy to remind him of whenever Dean exceeded his body's limits. If the tears leaking from those eyes squeezed tight against their escape weren't already telegraphing how badly Dean was hurting though, the rigid body, but for the white-knuckled fist rhythmically pounding against the mattress, was broadcasting it nationwide.

Unwilling to bear witness to his son's pulsing agony, John latched onto that fist, stilling its movements and prying it open, weaving strong fingers around their younger counterparts, as much gratified as he was alarmed that Dean returned his grip with interest. "C'mon, son, breathe," he coaxed, not at all liking the grey-green hue of his skin-tone. Last thing Dean needed now was to throw up. "Easy breaths, that's it."

John kept up the steady litany, staying calm and encouraging those rasping breaths; one rough hand carding through the damp hair at his son's temple, the other still holding tight. Eventually Dean's breathing eased as did his grip and when Dean's fingers loosened and pulled away, John felt an aching loss he knew he was no longer entitled to and didn't offer any resistance of his own.

The hand that had been resting in Dean's hair subtly skimmed along his son's face, wiping away the traces of moisture before settling once again on the kid's chest. "You okay?"

"God, that sucked out loud," was the answer and, because John's heart was still stuck in his throat, his laughter bubbled out on the tail end of the panic he'd been trying to suppress and he damn near choked on it. "Dad?"

The concern in Dean's voice nearly sent John over the edge and he pulled away abruptly, shaking off the remnants of fear and guilt as he harshly scrubbed his hands over his face. _God, I'm too damn tired for this._

When he finally returned his attention to his son, John was struck hard by how young and fragile Dean looked lying in this hospital bed. Gone was the sickly discoloration of nausea but the kid was still way too pale, his freckles standing out in stark contrast to skin damn near as white as the pillow he lay upon. His eyes were bloodshot again, still brimming with moisture, and if John allowed himself, he knew he'd get lost in them, drowning in the memory of a mute little green-eyed boy, suffering and incapable of understanding why.

"Dad, what the hell happened to me?"

The irony was too much and John tried unsuccessfully to stifle another choking laugh, knowing he was upsetting Dean but unable to help himself. _Jesus, get a grip, Winchester!_ Wiping his own eyes, John schooled his features into what he hoped resembled composed concern, inhaled a calming breath and responded with his own question. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Jim's place, I think," Dean answered, clearly still a little unsure. . . of his response and his father's mental state, no doubt.

"Jesus, Dean, that was three days ago." Dean flinched at John's reaction, looked like he was about to apologize or worse, bawl. And John, remembering that memory loss wasn't the only side-effect of Dean's concussion, immediately felt like an ass. "'S okay, bud, it's not your fault," he reassured. "I just hate like hell that you've lost so much time. You don't remember anything at all about the hunt?"

Dean closed his eyes, his brow creased once again in concentration. John was seated now, elbows resting on the mattress, hands clasped together beneath his chin. Waiting. When he was just about convinced that Dean was going to answer with a big negatory, the kid's eyes sprung open and he apprehensively said, "Reno. . . Jim figured it was just a ghost?"

_Just a ghost. Yeah, right._ John shuddered as flashes of Dean being thrown around, knocked unconscious, and dragged like a rag-doll by the spirit of Peter Wellington assaulted his mind. His voice was rougher than he intended when he answered. "Yeah, that's right. It _was_ a spirit, son."

"Standard salt and burn, right?"

Glad that his son's memory was improving, John wanted nothing more than for Dean to just shut the fuck up. He wasn't about to tell him that though; he _had_ encouraged this scenic jaunt down memory lane after all. Still, now that he was knee deep in it, John really didn't relish the reminder of last night's fubar hunt. "Nothing fucking standard about it, Dean."

Not surprisingly, Dean flinched again and John knew he'd sounded too harsh, too angry. Couldn't help it, his churning emotions were conditioned to morph into hostility at times like these. Dean had every right to balk. Always was better at reading his dad than Sam was.

"Did I mess up?" Christ, Dean sounded twelve again. Scared and small and awaiting his father's retribution. "Dad, tell me. Did I fuck up?" And all John could do was bury his face in his hands and try not to scream.

John knew it was unfair to hold out on Dean but couldn't yet form the words he needed to say. Instead, John thought about the rebelliousness that had driven him crazy the last few days. It had started nearly the instant the kid had realized they would end up within two hundred fifty miles of Stanford and had lasted right until that bastard Wellington damn near killed Dean. He thought too about Dean's lack of focus during the hunt, his distraction, the inattention, the back talk, and the petulance. . . and he came to a startling realization. That all that irritating moodiness had been a more than welcome change from the expressionless, too-obedient, too-quiet kid that had been his partner over the last number of months. Ever since John had slammed the door closed and turned his back on a departing Sam.

Dropping his hands away from his face, John finally lifted his head to meet Dean's anxious gaze. This time John didn't resist the pull. Reaching out, John answered, starting with his firm, _don't mess with me_ timbre, "You listen to me, Dean and listen close. . . this was _not_ your fault." He couldn't maintain his bad-ass façade though and settled his hand once again in Dean's hair, smoothing it downward until his palm rested against the juncture of Dean's neck and shoulder. Dean's eyes had closed as he leaned into his father's touch but slowly blinked open with his whispered words. "This was all my doing, son. Everything. . . it's all on me."

To be continued.


	4. Ch 4 Rest & Recuperation

**Armistice**

**Summary:** A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Chapter 4 of 9 in total.

**Rating:** T, language.

**Spoilers:** None.

**Disclaimers:** See my profile page.

**Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings:** Penny, my awesome beta-reader, is unwell and though I'd hoped to be able to post this with her valued input, I didn't want to break my at-least-one-part-per-week rule, so am flying solo here. Hopefully I haven't missed anything glaring. Get better, Penn! Thanks again to Heather for her medical expertise and Jennie for the grammar fixes. Thanks also to everyone who is still reading and especially those who take the time to send their reviews. Every ounce of feedback is truly appreciated.

* * *

Chapter 4 – Rest & Recuperation 

A shower, a shave, clean clothes and a decent meal and John was feeling a hell of a lot more human than he'd had for much of the day. It definitely helped that Dean was doing much better. His pupils were starting to resemble each other - a good sign that the cranial pressure was correcting itself - and his doctor was talking about taking Dean off the oxygen and the heart monitor. Things were definitely looking up. Hell, each time they woke Dean, he was acting more and more like himself. Despite still having one obnoxious killer of a headache, he was even up to charming the nurses, a sure sign John's oldest boy was on the road to recovery.

Though John actually hoped the memory of Wellington's attack would elude his son, there was no question Dean was remembering much of what he'd lost. He didn't need to be fed their story anymore. One hint about a certain Stones bass player and Dean had remembered his cover. Even recalled the fake address they'd used under those names. Which was more than his old man could say. And John had every intention of blaming _that_ on lack of sleep and worry. Didn't have a goddamn thing to do with age.

In fact, Dean was doing so well; John had felt comfortable enough leaving his kid in Sister Carol Riley's capable care. She'd popped in two hours before her shift began, just to check on Dean and, before too long, the patient had a co-conspirator willing to help him ban his _ripe_ father from the room. _Ungrateful little shit._

Of course John didn't mean a word of that, thrilled as he was that the close-call Dean had suffered would soon become just another in a too long line of bad memories. Another nightmare for his father to take on, but that was just fine. John could deal with a rough night's sleep. As long as it meant Dean would be all right.

Dean usually bristled at motherly types, _especially_ religious ones, but he seemed to take to the chaplain. Whether his ease with her was simply a symptom of the concussion or was just because his dad and she had hit it off too, John couldn't be sure. Either way he was happy and more than a little relieved he had someone he could trust his son's care to. Someone Dean trusted. Even if it was only for the time it took John to clean himself up and run some errands. John still needed sleep but he'd do that later. He didn't want to miss Doctor Rowe checking in on Dean and, since the man's shift started when Carol's officially did, he wanted to be back by eight.

It wasn't as though John had grown a sudden fondness for the man; it was just that John didn't trust Dean to stay put much longer, in spite of his debilitated state, without having to put a leash on him. At twenty-five, his son had long since passed the age of majority and could sign himself out AMA. Or con his way into an authorized release without even breaking a sweat. Never mind that he could barely lift his head up without seeing stars, once Dean decided to book it, John honestly wasn't sure if he'd have a hope in hell of stopping him. The best he could do was try to outmaneuver his son, cut him off at the pass. Before he did something asinine like go AWOL and somehow make his way to Palo Alto on his own.

The kid hadn't mentioned Sammy at all since he'd started feeling better but, given all the times John had shut down any of Dean's attempts to bring Sam up as of late, John had to admit that could be considered normal. Still, John couldn't help but wonder what was cooking in his eldest's concussed head. With every wake-up, Dean's memory improved, so there was no way in hell he'd forgotten a _minor_ detail like the fact that his brother was only a four hour drive from them. Especially given his bull-headed obsession with the concept during the Wellington hunt. No, Dean hadn't forgotten about his little brother and John just hoped liked hell he'd know what to do when the subject of Sam finally came up.

Last night's snafu only reaffirmed his belief that putting Dean anywhere near his brother and father, _especially_ right now, would be a mistake. Dean was hurt and, though he'd deny it, damn near defenseless and clearly not up to his familiar role of mediator. And, though John would never admit it to anyone but himself, Sam would be justified in any anger tossed John's way right now. The problem was, like any well trained soldier, his youngest would end up exploiting the weaknesses of his opponent (John steadfastly refused to think in terms of _enemy_). In this case using Dean, or rather what happened to him, against John. And that would place Dean directly in the line of fire, resulting in exactly what John had wanted to avoid in the first place.

If only John hadn't been so fucking stubborn. Despite what he felt were valid reservations, he should have just said yes when Dean had first threatened to go see Sam on his own. Hell, _suggesting_ it might have even been the decent thing to do. But now it was too late. Dean wouldn't be going anywhere on his own anytime soon. He hoped.

* * *

Heading down the hall toward Dean's room, John made a quick detour to the nurses' station. "It's about time you took a break, John," Debra, Dean's overnight nurse, said by way of a greeting. John was a little surprised by the warmth of her smile, given the tension that had taken place between them this morning. But, as she tilted her head toward the counter and said, "The flowers are lovely, John. Thank-you," the hunter realized his little peace offering had done the trick. _Atta boy, Dean._

Almost a half hour after John had accidentally awakened Dean that morning, Debra had finally shown up to check on him. Her shift replacement had been running late, so Debra, apologizing for the delay, had stayed to cover for her. John hadn't given a damn. By then Dean had already been worn out from their talk and, more worrisome, the kid's headache had tipped the scales into unbearable. Unfortunately for the nurse, John's behavior with her hadn't exactly been his best. The hapless woman had walked into the room armed with only a concerned smile and a list of questions slated for Dean while John, on the other hand, had met her with a full frontal assault. Just thinking about it now, John couldn't help but feel a little contrite.

"Dean's memory is fine, getting better. You can take my word for it," he'd started on her right away, authority in his voice with no time for pleasantries. "If you really wanna feel useful, his head is killing him. Go get him something for the pain."

_Way to have laid on the charm, Winchester._

"I'm sure you're right, Mr. Wyman but, as you know, we do have protocols to follow and," indicating the clipboard in her grip, "I really do have to ask Dean these questions." She'd been speaking with practiced patience but then had added, her tone equally determined, "_before_ I get the go-ahead to administer any more medications."

"Go-ahead?" John had gotten plenty loud at that point. "Look, you know his doctor said Dean could have something whenever he needed it. He goddamn well needs it now. Can't you see that?"

"I understand, Mr. Wyman and, as soon as Dean answers the questions, I'm sure--"

"Fuck the twenty questions, my son's in pain!"

"Mr. Wyman, please!"

"Dad, stop it!"

"You stay out of it!" He'd barked at Dean before his brain had actually registered the agony in his son's voice. Once it had sunk in, John had stopped cold. And when he'd turned and actually looked at Dean, he'd felt like a Grade A, prime, world class jackass. Again. Sitting more upright than he should have been, Dean's face had contorted in misery, eyes again squeezed shut and he was sucking in short, ragged breaths, nearly frantic in his effort to gain control over the pain running rampant through his head. "Easy, tiger," John had soothed, grasping the flailing hand that had immediately grabbed his sleeve. "Settle down. I gotcha."

Someone else might've marveled at the change that had come over John, or maybe even shied away from his admittedly erratic behavior but, at Dean's distress, Debra had done neither. She'd simply added her voice to John's, hers melodic in contrast to John's rough gravel, both working toward the same goal of comforting John's son.

It had taken too damn long for Dean's breathing to have settled but eventually and, with the switch from the cannula to a face mask, it had. And when he'd finally relaxed, those too bright eyes had revealed themselves with large drops of moisture balancing precariously on the tips of his lashes, just waiting to fall. John knew that Dean would normally never have wanted his father to see him so vulnerable, let alone have a stranger see it. Even though the kid's head might've been scrambled, John had still been pretty convinced his son would have felt the same way at that very moment.

John had wanted to lighten the mood for Dean, do anything to draw attention away from those eyes but he frankly just hadn't had it in him right then to make light of the ordeal his kid was going through.

He should've known that he could count on Dean to take matters into his own hands.

Shakily lifting the mask, he'd hoarsely whispered, "Christ, Dad." Chastising John, despite his weakness, then adding, with a bit more strength, "Belligerent much?"

That John's laughter had been tinged with residual fear, along with budding relief, hadn't been anything new by then. After all, he'd been walking the tightrope between the opposing sets of panic and grief and gratitude and joy ever since first walking in on an awake-but-suffering Dean in the imaging room. But, to then have heard Debra laugh too. . . well, that had broken the ice between them all.

So, here they were now. The flowers for the nurses' station had been Dean's idea. It might have been considered a little surprising that the young man who could get laid at the drop of a hat, or rather, drop of a lame pickup line, could be that considerate. Dean had insisted it was purely for the purposes of self-preservation. . . that it was he, after all, who had IVs and monitors stuck into him and didn't want pissed off nurses tending him. John knew better though. Making amends was simply what Dean did. Even for his undeserving father.

John acknowledged Debra's gratitude for the flowers with a grim smile. "Don't mention it, it's the least I can do," he said, before asking, "How's my son?"

"Improving all the time," Debra answered and John felt the tension residing in between his shoulder blades, ever since the hospital had loomed back into sight as he drove into the parking lot, ease. "Sister Carol's still with him, he breezed through his question session and, last time I checked, Dean was still awake."

"Just what I like to hear." John grinned broadly and, with a wink that had both Debra and the younger nurse standing next to her blushing a little pink, he took his leave. Still smiling, more than a little smugly now - _the old man's still got it, too_ - John made another minor sojourn before carrying on to Dean's room.

The door was open but, leaning against the door frame, John stopped to take in the welcome sight. The head of Dean's bed was raised now, so the kid was finally sitting up. His head wasn't budging at all though from the ample supply of pillows he was resting against so moving it clearly still hurt like a bitch. But John knew from experience that just being semi-upright would do wonders for Dean's recovery. Like his father, Dean hated being flat on his back when he was hurt or sick. The position was too difficult to defend, too exposed and both of them pushed themselves whenever they were down for the count to get from horizontal to vertical in as little time as possible. Shit, he hoped Dean wasn't pushing it now.

Dean looked all right though, deep in conversation with the chaplain. He wasn't talking as animatedly as was possible though and they both had the volume turned down too low for John to make out the words. Likely because Dean's ever-present headache couldn't tolerate much more. Dean seemed relaxed, his features not nearly as pinched as they'd been hours earlier. His color was better too. Best of all, his son was smiling, and John was sure it was genuine. Hell, Carol was smiling too and John couldn't help but think about Debra and the other nurse and falling apples and trees, even though he knew full well that Dean's way with women, nuns included apparently, was all Dean's.

When the soft lilt of Sister Carol's laughter carried across the room toward John, curiosity got the better of him and John found himself clearing his throat, making his presence known.

"John," She reacted warmly to his presence, vacating the bedside chair and heading toward him and the door.

"Hey," Dean's greeting was even more welcoming and stronger than John had expected, making him feel genuinely happy. And so damn relieved.

"Hey, dude," he replied, hoping the softness of his tone would let Dean know how glad his father was to see him sitting upright. "No need to leave on my account, Sister," he added sincerely as she approached him at the doorway.

Glancing at her wristwatch, she shrugged almost apologetically as she turned to Dean, then back to John. "No, I really do have other patients and their families to attend to so I'll leave you two boys alone. Now that I know Dean's in the best of hands, of course."

Her words and tone were so kind, carrying with them such respect and approval, John found himself at a loss for words. Given the baggage-load of guilt he'd been hauling around all day, he just didn't know how to respond. Dean's smirk - the kid clearly knew he was thrown - was not helping matters either, so John awkwardly held out one of the two coffees he'd picked up en route. "Well, uh, yeah. . . at least take this with you then. I owe you one."

Darting his eyes toward Dean, he could have groaned when he read the kid's lips. . . _Smooth. Real smooth._ His concussed son was mocking him. _Terrific_.

The chaplain mercifully accepted the cup with grace, saying her thanks but then surprised John when she added, "Actually, John, do you have a minute?"

Feeling his stomach plummet, John remembered just how much he hated hospitals. Debra had told him Dean was fine, damn it, there was no reason to fret. Shooting his gaze toward Dean, his son looked just as mystified but, unlike John who was still tongue-tied, Dean's voice was only limited by its strength. "Hey. . . adult here. If it's is about me, you wanna let me in on it?"

"Nothing to worry about, sweetie. I just need to borrow your dad for a sec." Sister Carol led John out the door, closing it behind them, and immediately set out to placate him. "Dean's just fine, John. Doing remarkably well, so there's honestly no need to worry."

John lifted his cup, intent on taking a drink of his coffee, hoping to downplay his anxiety. Unfortunately, his hand was shaking just enough for his plan to backfire and he felt Carol's smaller one land on his forearm. He closed his eyes briefly, took a few calming breaths and answered her. "Yeah, well, that's easy for you to say. You don't know my son."

"I've just spent two hours with him, John."

She was a nice lady and John didn't have the heart to tell her that Dean only revealed whatever he wanted to. Even to his father most of the time. And since he couldn't think of what else to say, he simply cut to the chase. "What can I do for you, Sister?"

Seemingly undaunted by his renewed gruffness, she just smiled. As though she knew something John didn't. He really did hate that unsettling feeling. "I'll let you get back to your boy right away, John." Their eyes met then and John couldn't help but feel a little ashamed about his thoughts and humbled by her kindness and understanding. She was a bit older than John, maybe mid-fifties but had a serenity and sageness about her that belied her years. "John, tonight's my last shift and then I'm off for a week of retreat. And, since you two will be long gone before I get back, I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed spending time with Dean." She smiled warmly again, clasping a hand over his, her words heartfelt. "These days, young people just don't have the same strong sense of family that Dean has. He really is such a sweet child."

John really shouldn't have chosen that moment to have another go at his coffee. At the nun's words, something let go in him. He knew Sister Carol was being sincere. Hell she was practically oozing it and yet all John could do was laugh. Damn near hysterically. Trapped in the moment of realization that the subject of family - of Sam - was inevitable. . . that Dean was apparently already talking about his brother, just not yet with him, and then left stunned by the absurdity of Carol's assessment of Dean, it was a wonder he didn't spew his coffee all over her. Honestly though, did she just tell him that his oldest child was sweet?

To be continued.


	5. Ch 5 Skirmish

**Armistice**

**Summary:** A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Chapter 5 of 9 in total.

**Rating:** T, language.

**Spoilers:** None.

**Disclaimers:** See my profile page.

**Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings:** Penny is feeling better and is therefore back in beta-reader mode. Thanks for the awesome suggestions, girl. Much obliged to Heather and Jennie for their respective expertise and, to everyone who is reading and especially those reviewing, your time is greatly appreciated also.

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Chapter 5 - Skirmish 

"Hey, what went on out there?" Dean asked as John walked back into his son's room. He'd hoped Dean hadn't managed to hear any of his profuse apology to Sister Carol for cracking up on her outside the door. The woman really did have patience and understanding down to an art-form. She had taken John's behavior in stride, blamed it on the stress and he hadn't denied it - hell, knew it was true - before they went their separate ways.

"Nothing, dude. How you feeling?" John asked, leaning against the wall opposite the bed and hoping his deflection was successful.

"Fine. What did Sister Carol want?" _Crash and burn._

Scrubbing a hand through his still damp hair, John then pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to quell the sudden urge to laugh yet again. The irritated scowl Dean was wearing rivaled anything John had ever seen reflected back at him in a mirror. Not very sweet, if you asked his opinion. Regaining his control, he answered, "No big deal, sport. She just had some good things to say and didn't want to risk your head starting to swell again if she said them in front of you."

Apparently ignoring the dig, John was rewarded with a grin from Dean. "Hah, women. . . they all love me."

"Uh huh. . . practicing your humility, I see."

"Hey, when you got it--"

"Yeah, yeah, just remember who gave it to you," John countered, thoroughly enjoying the teasing and banter that had been absent between them for months.

"Well, it couldn't've been you," Dean deadpanned. "Unless you call what you did with the coffee and, oh yeah, the stuttering, workin' your mojo."

"She's a _nun_, Dean," John ground out, a hint of _don't go there_ mixed with good humor in his tone as he stalked toward his son. "Married to God and all that." Expecting something along the lines of a smartass "so what", John dove in first, equally straight-faced, "I'd like to think that's one vow you'd respect."

The change in Dean was so sudden, color leaching from his face almost as though he was about to pass out, John's first instinct was to hit the call button. Instead, Dean's words froze him in his tracks.

"I don't screw married women, Dad." Gone was the laughter that had briefly found its way into Dean's voice. Instead, John's son sounded hurt and pissed off. "I wouldn't do that."

_Shit_. Truth be told, John never really thought about Dean's choices when it came to women. _Tried_ not to think about it. Years ago, once he'd realized his chick-magnet of a son wasn't likely to keep it in his pants, John had passed on just a few grains of wisdom: to always use protection in the conventional sense and, to watch out for and protect himself against the likes of succubi and rusalki and their ilk. Beyond that, he really, _really_ didn't want to know what his skirt-chasing son was up to.

Despite recognizing that Dean's strong reaction to the vow crack was more than likely due at least in part to post-concussive mood swings, the hurt expression his son still wore was forcing John to replay and reconsider his words. And in doing so, it didn't take him very long at all to come up with a theory he felt explained the moral code he'd honestly had no idea his son was operating under. It was simple, really and it swelled John's chest with pride at the same time it broke his heart. . . Dean wouldn't risk being responsible for a man losing his wife. No way in hell would he play any role in a family falling apart. John should have known that.

"Dean--" John started, struggling with what to say. "I get it. And I should've known better, all right?" It was the best John could do. He hoped his voice, the meaning behind his inadequate words, would reveal how awful John felt.

Dean hadn't made eye contact with John since making his declaration but, with John's apology, his eyes lifted and their gazes met. After everything he'd seen over the last two-plus decades, John Winchester didn't surprise very easily, but the intensity of the anger now etched on Dean's features startled the hell out of him. _What the fuck?_

"Yeah, you damn well should have," his son responded and, though instinct promptly put John's back up, rankling at the accusing words and insubordination, he tried to focus on the positive, the momentary relief that blossomed in his chest that the fire and intensity missing from Dean was making a comeback. He'd let the snarkiness go. . . this time.

To an extent.

"I'm gonna blame that attitude you're handing me on your concussion and let it go. Do _not_ get used to it though, you hear me?"

"Don't do me any favors."

"Jesus, Dean!" Okay, the kid was making this damn hard. He wondered briefly if another side-effect of Dean's concussion was the ability to channel Sam.

"Don't _Dean_ me either," he snapped in response. John caught the resultant wince but chose to ignore it.

John could feel his blood pressure rising, heat surging through his veins. His senses were heightening in this foreign territory, as though he was in the middle of a hunt. He suppressed it, willing himself to calm. This was just Dean -- hurt, hospitalized and still very ill. _Don't blame him, it's the concussion talking_, becoming the mantra looping through John's mind.

"Then what exactly do you want me to say?" He couldn't hold back the frustration though, but at least his own anger was now held in check.

"For starters you can stop lying to me!" That response was so completely unexpected, John was sure he must have looked like an idiot, what with the stunned expression he had to be wearing. Before he could gather his wits to ask, Dean continued. "Where do you get off?"

"All right, that's--!" John stopped the fury. He honestly didn't know what was going on and was starting to worry. The emotions playing across Dean's features ran the gamut, from anger to hurt, confusion to condescension, and everything in between. Not to mention it was obvious that these outbursts were physically taking their toll. John didn't have a clue but he knew one thing, losing his temper like he had so often with Sammy - too often - was not the answer. Had never been the answer. "Dean, come on," he spoke softly, wanting to calm Dean down yet unable to hide the anxiety from his voice. "You got me at a real disadvantage here. What in the hell are you talking about?"

As quickly as Dean's anger had escalated, it seemed to deflate even faster. Sighing heavily, he sunk deeper into his pillows. "The hunt," he answered forlornly. Signs of further confrontation gone, as though they'd never existed. "You said I didn't mess up. But I remember now. . . I did. I fucked up."

_Shit._ John had really hoped to avoid this conversation, particularly while Dean was still recovering. His son had gone from livid to miserable faster than the Impala from zero to sixty and John felt like he had whiplash. He just was not used to walking on eggshells. For anyone.

Rubbing both hands over his face, pressing the heels into his eye-sockets, John took his seat next to the bed. He suspected Dean's memory might still have holes, considered what he was going to say and decided he'd stick with what he'd told his son in the first place. He'd just have to elaborate a little. "I never said you didn't make mistakes, Dean," he started, intensely focused on Dean.

Clearly confused, Dean spoke up, "But you said--?"

"I said it wasn't your fault," John cut in. "I meant it."

"All due respect, sir, but that's bullshit."

"Excuse me?" John blurted, unsure now whether he should be pissed or laugh.

"I mean, come on, Dad. If I hadn't been giving you such a hard time instead of actually doing my job, I might've noticed that whackjob coming after us."

_Not us, kiddo. You._ The memory Dean's words invoked sickened John and he felt a shudder travel his spine. Despite resolutely trying to shuffle thoughts of Wellington's spirit attacking Dean to the back of his mind he didn't miss how hard Dean was being on himself. That was typical Dean though. Always his own worst critic, tougher than he ever had to be. Wanting to nip the kid's self-loathing in the bud, John decided he'd have to push harder than he'd hoped would be necessary. "Dean, let me ask you something. . . "

"Yeah."

"Last time you checked, who was running this show?"

"You, sir. But--"

"Enough," John interrupted, raising a hand in what was clearly a signal from father to son to shut his cake-hole. "No buts. I've got the command, I take the heat. End of story."

Dean sighed, sinking even further into the bed, his entire being radiating misery and defeat. Wanting to placate him, John added, "Dean, we both screwed up, all right. Let our tempers get the better of us in the middle of a hunt. _I_ never should have let that happen, never should have left you alone up there knowing your mind wasn't on the hunt. That's my responsibility. Not yours."

"Yeah, well. It's not like you have a choice anymore." John cringed at Dean's soft, utterly despondent response. The words Dean spoke held truth but John did not want this talk to head anywhere in Sam's direction right now. He regretted not facing the reality of their proximity to Sam before the hunt but, at this moment, Dean was wearing down, the dark hollows under his eyes looking more pronounced, as though he'd been punched. John sure as hell wasn't treading Sammy waters right now.

"Yeah, about that," he said, schooling his features into a half-assed smirk, hoping what he had to say next would help. "While you've been getting your beauty rest, I've been doing some thinking and it occurred to me you've already come up with a solution. . ."

John was gratified to see Dean's interest piqued, curiosity putting some color back into his complexion. "Okay, Captain Cryptic, it's my turn, you've totally lost me."

John couldn't contain his grin, the corners of his mouth upturning as he lightly brushed his knuckles against the fringes of Dean's hair. "Yeah, well, you've got one hell of a good excuse, dude, so why don't you let me spell it out for you?"

Palms up, arms spread wide, "Captive audience here, I'm all yours," he replied, before settling them across his chest in obvious anticipation.

He was acting so much more like _the real_ Dean right now, it was almost impossible to fathom the kid's outburst of just moments before. This rollercoaster ride would soon pass, John reminded himself. He would just have to hang on tight and ride it out.

"Your EMF meter," John explained. The kid's forehead creased in confusion, but he kept quiet, so John elaborated. "From now on, we turn it on when we're digging graves. It's a substitute for that extra lookout we need." The _now that Sam's gone_ remained unspoken.

Dean was definitely more alert, though uncertainty still shadowed his expression. "But I didn't think you had any use for it?"

"Christ, Dean, we just used it at Wellington's house, didn't we?"

"No, sir," Dean countered. "_I_ used it at the house. _You_ pretty much ignored it."

A picture was beginning to form in John's mind. The image of a shy, uncertain freckle-faced little boy, very much in need of his father's praise and reassurance. He'd thought that child was long gone and in his place stood a cocksure, oft times astonishingly capable, twenty-five year old smartass. John forgot too often that those boys were one and the same. Funny how that same kid confined to a hospital bed could kick-start a father's memory though.

"Dean, do you honestly think I'd let you spend three days fucking around with the thing back at Jim's if I didn't believe you'd make it work?" Dean seemed to be at a loss for words, though the pink hue starting to warm his cheeks was speaking volumes. John was pretty pleased with himself. Not only had he avoided a painful Sammy discussion but he also just managed to make his sick kid feel better.

"You really don't think it was a waste of time?"

"Of course not, why? You fishin' for a medal?"

"No, but a merit badge would be cool."

"Do I honestly look like a Scout leader to you?" John grumbled jokingly, more than thrilled he'd been able to draw Dean up from the pits of this downward mood swing and into some verbal sparring. He knew with Dean's injury, more emotional peaks and valleys were inevitable but he'd still revel in the victories. No matter how small.

Straightening in his chair, John opened his jacket wider, pulling out two rolled up magazines from its inside pocket. "In the meantime, here," he said as he lightly tossed them onto Dean's lap. "These don't exactly qualify under electronics but consider them your reward as master of all things mechanical."

John's words were lighthearted but the pride and respect was heartfelt. The awkward silence left in its wake told him that Dean knew it too. Damn kid. . . wanted the praise so badly but didn't have a clue what to do with it once he got it.

"Awesome, thanks." Dean finally spoke, wearing a genuine grin as he quickly flipped through the pages of the magazines. They were latest editions of _Hot Rod_ and _Muscle Car_ and John couldn't help but notice that Dean was lifting them up to his face to view them, keeping his head completely still. Another reminder that any head movement at all still hurt like a sonofabitch.

That realization took some of the wind out of John's sails and he found himself slumping further into the chair his ass was starting to consider home, second only to the Impala. His own exhaustion was definitely beginning to catch up with him. Reaching across the rail, John grasped both magazines and forced them, along with Dean's hands, down onto the kid's lap. "Just look at the pictures for now, son. I don't want you trying to read yet."

"Hell, orders like those and you didn't pick me up a _Playboy_?" Despite the wisecrack, Dean didn't offer any resistance and abandoned the periodicals in his lap. At the sound of a slightly irritated _"Dean"_ coming from John, he did offer up a blatant lie. "I'm all right," he said, slowly rolling his head to directly meet his father's gaze. "Just tired. M'head hurts."

_Like it ever stopped._ It occurred to John then that Dean had been awake talking with the sister the entire time he'd been away. Over two hours, which was by far the longest stint he'd lasted since getting hurt. With that realization came another. . . despite it having been Dean's idea for John to leave; he was now sure his son had been waiting for him, might have even been too uptight to go to sleep without John being there. Damn, this concussion was messing with Dean in too many ways to count; only now it was being more subtle about it. John would have to stay diligent, watch for signs.

"Well, then, if that's the case. . ." John began, watching Dean watch him and speaking softly while well-practiced hands unlocked and lowered the guardrail again. Gently slipping the extra pillows out from behind Dean's head, he continued. "Why don't we do something about that?" John now had the bed's remote control in one hand, pressing the button to return Dean to horizontal. In spite of John's vigilance, Dean whimpered briefly at the motion of the bed, biting into his lower lip to cut off the sound and John hesitated, reaching with his free hand to rest it on Dean's nearest shoulder before continuing the downward momentum. "Close your eyes, you're okay." Redundant, since Dean was squeezing them shut anyway. They remained sealed tight until fluttering wide when John removed his hand from Dean's shoulder, adjusted the blanket covering his son and then rested his arm alongside Dean's. Dean watched in silence, blinking slowly but not succumbing to sleep until John finally said, "Go to sleep, Dean. That's an order," followed by a whispered oath, "I'm not going anywhere."

To be continued.


	6. Ch 6 Staging

**Armistice**

**Summary:** A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Chapter 6 of 9 in total.

**Rating:** T, language.

**Spoilers:** None.

**Disclaimers:** See my profile page.

**Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings:** Penny is deserving of major kudos here for finding and then helping me dig out of two plot-holes in this chapter and I'm eternally grateful for the rescue. Heather once again was a big help in clarifying some medical/hospital issues and getting back to me so quickly so I'm indebted to her as well. Despite this chapter giving me the most grief so far, I'm loading it earlier than usual, hoping that I can continue this trend of shorter intervals between chapters and have the story uploaded in its entirety before my vacation starts July 15th. Wish me luck with that! Thanks as always to everyone reading the story and to those who are sending your feedback -- every word of it is truly appreciated.

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Chapter 6 - Staging 

Since Debra and the other nurses had taken pity on him, John decided he was going to have to get them more flowers. Thank them for the sleeping chair they'd borrowed from one of the other floors. He couldn't exactly disagree with Dean about looking like Granny Clampett using the thing but, fact was, it was so much easier on his back and butt. John hadn't really cared before about sleeping comfortably because the last thing he'd wanted, while Dean was so out of it, was to sleep at all. But now that he knew Dean was better, he could concede and admit that he needed some shut-eye as well. Debra had insisted she'd wake him whenever they came in to check on Dean, which was kind of her really but completely unnecessary. He might allow himself to drift off, but there was no way in hell anyone was getting near one of his sleeping kids with him around. Not as long as John was breathing.

He had no idea how long he'd been asleep this time when his eyes popped open. Fighting through the grogginess, he tried to determine just what had woken him. There was no panic, no tingling sense of urgency spurring him into vivid awareness. The sharp burst of adrenalin that always alerted his body the minute his instincts got wind of danger never materialized. Chalking up his sudden wakefulness to some forgotten dream, he stretched his arms up behind him, yawning widely as his blanket slipped off his lap. He let it fall, opting to rub sleep-encrusted eyes and then a hand through his hair before turning to check on his sleeping son.

Or rather, his _not_ sleeping son.

Though he definitely looked worn out, John was a little shocked to find Dean awake, curled on his side and staring at him. Despite the dimness of the room, John could see that Dean's expressive eyes were boring into him. _Okay, so that explains a lot._

"Dean?" His voice came out rough and John looked at the wall clock, figuring how long he'd been out. It was twenty to two which meant about an hour and a half this go-around but he must have been sleeping deep.

Concern wormed its way into John's stomach but he forced it down while at the same time rising from the recliner and taking the few steps required to reach his kid's bedside.

Flipping on the wall lamp above the bed, he asked, "You hurting, son?" No longer hooked up to anything beyond his IV, John resorted to tried and true methods, reflexively seeking out Dean's forehead and cheekbones with the back of his hand and finding them reassuringly cool. No reason to call for help yet, he fervently hoped.

"I'm fine," Dean answered but he didn't sound that way at all. Not hurting so much, but he seemed down. Infinitely sad. John sighed, frustration prickling his senses, and planted himself onto the hardback chair once again. Readying himself for another round.

He'd been relieved that he hadn't needed a score card in the last few hours to keep track of Dean's emotions, but now had to wonder why his son seemed depressed. "What's wrong then? How come you're awake?"

Despite the huddled view John was getting of Dean's features, he could see a smirk working its way onto his face. Problem was, Dean was clearly working too hard to get it there. He was faking it. "The chainsaw six feet away from me might've had something to do with it."

"I damn well don't snore," John replied, indignant and coming fully awake. Even knowing that Dean's smart-assing was purely a diversionary tactic, John still fell for it. Kid always did know how to push the right buttons. Just rarely did it with John.

"No, you don't," Dean agreed, surprising John as the kid's smirk fell away much more easily than it had arisen. "But you were just now. Go back to sleep, Dad. You're more bagged than I am."

John couldn't really argue the point. He _was_ worn out. Still, he had no intention of going back to sleep. Not while his son was looking so miserable. Besides, Debra was due to come back within twenty or so and this time they were taking the kid for another CT-scan. Doctor Rowe wanted to see if there had been any changes since his last scan and John intended to be fully coherent for that.

"I'm not crashing again any time soon, dude. Not with the doc and company coming for you."

"I don't get why they have to do the scan anyway," Dean complained. "Any moron could figure out I'm getting better. Even Doc Hollywood there. It's a waste of fucking time."

Okay, so that was reason number one for Dean's mood. He was worried about the test. That made sense, knowing how much his son disliked hospitals and didn't want to be trapped in them any longer than necessary. John could understand that. Felt that way a time or two himself. "It's S.O.P., Dean. Gotta be done, so just deal. Besides, I highly doubt it's gonna delay you getting your walking papers, all right?" He placated, or tried to. Bitching and moaning never earned his boys much in the way of sympathy. That and lack of sleep were definitely wearing John's patience a little thin.

"And just exactly when is that going to be?"

"You heard what Rowe said last time. . . or did you forget?" John had been about to repeat what the doctor had stated during his nightly rounds - that, as long as Dean stayed nausea-free, he'd be released some time on Saturday - but niggling concern over potential setbacks kept John from continuing.

"I remember," Dean sighed, squeezing his eyes shut against his apparent misery.

John wasn't sure if Dean's obvious pain was physical at this point or not. He reached out and gave his shoulder the slightest of shakes. "Hey, you need more meds?"

"I can't take another two days of this place, Dad." Technically it was only about a day and a half now but John didn't really think correcting Dean would help matters at the moment. Hell, the kid sounded so despondent; John feared that a bout of unwelcome waterworks might be fast approaching and beyond Dean's control.

"Why? You got a hot date I don't know about?" He let the sarcasm roll off his tongue. With an audience due to invade the room any minute, he was doing his damnedest to prevent Dean from any embarrassment.

"No." Dean's eye roll was so pronounced, with his concussion it must have hurt. "C'mon, Dad." John was really hoping for a stronger reaction than a whine.

"Then explain the fucking rush?" _That oughtta do it._

"I can't!"

_Yahtzee. _Not that John felt much pride in successfully baiting Dean. In fact he couldn't help but feel guilty for the way Dean had suddenly clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut once again. Besides, even when those eyes re-opened, he still looked dejected. With maybe a hint of resignation. John would just have to keep pushing. Harder this time

"All right, spill it. Now, Dean," his expression and tone brooking no further argument.

"You _really_ don't want to hear this, Dad," he sighed, clearly troubled. Which, of course, had the same effect on his father.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

"Fine. . . I want to see Sam."

Defiance wasn't exactly what John had been aiming for either. _Well, shit. Here we go. _"Damn it, Dean--"

"No, Dad. . ." Dean insisted, working to right himself in the bed. John reached forward to help but Dean was too keyed up and shoved his father's hands away. "Don't you get it? I _need_ to see Sam. We're almost there and I can't _not_ go."

Still struggling to get himself into a defensible position, John couldn't stand it anymore. Couldn't listen to Dean's gasps and hisses nor watch his obvious agony as he fought against his infirmity. "Stop!" He shouted and, with a pronounced flinch, Dean stilled immediately. It was like Pavlov and his damn dog and, times like these, John understood why it sickened Sam so much to witness it. "Hold still, goddamn it." Despite the disgusted twist in his own gut, John didn't hold back. Didn't dare relinquish his command until he had Dean settled into a position his fragile skull could bear. "That's it, just take it easy." John pinned him lightly in place with one hand as he fumbled with the remote for the bed until he had Dean elevated so that they could talk face to face.

"Fuck," Dean groaned, Adam's apple bobbing erratically as he tried to swallow back the pain. The kid's pallor was about one shade south of milk and sweat was pooling above his lip and in the hollow at the base of his throat.

"You need a nurse?" At what was barely a headshake, John cupped Dean's neck, firmly kneading the bands of tension at the base of his son's skull. Dean didn't resist, even held still, eyes closed and simply breathing until he finally relaxed, breaths in tandem with his dad's.

Father and son stayed like that for a few more minutes, until Dean grasped John's forearm, stilling its motion before setting a glare upon his old man that would have made his mother proud.

John got the message. His kid might be accepting of, even grateful for, the comfort, might still be hurting like hell, but that didn't change anything. He wasn't going to back off now. _Fuck_ was right.

John pulled back, letting go of Dean at the same time Dean released his grip. John sighed heavily and fixed his own stern gaze upon his son, preparing for the battle of wills. "Look at yourself," he started with the obvious. "You are simply not up to it, boy."

Dean blinked hard, setting his jaw before meeting his father's stare. "Dad, we can do this. I'll be all right. I'll just sleep in the car and you can keep waking me every two hours if that's what Rowe wants. We'll take it slow." It was becoming painfully obvious to John that Dean had been using his dad's brief respite of sleep to establish his case. Sam would've definitely approved. "I gotta do this, Dad," he was practically begging now, something Dean never did. . . not healthy, anyway. "And it has to be tomorrow."

"What? No way. Not a fucking chance in hell!"

"Dad, listen. . ." he implored. "Tomorrow's Friday and then spring break starts and then who knows where Sam'll end up? He's got classes until three and then he'll be gone."

John had no idea where or how Dean had come up with all this. Correction, Jim Murphy had some explaining to do, he was sure of it. John couldn't believe he was giving Dean the time of day right now, this was so fucking ridiculous, but for a moment there he was actually glad he'd tuned in. It gave him a valid argument or at least some better ammo to use than simply threatening to handcuff Dean to his bed.

"Gone where, Dean? Sam's got no place to go."

"Right, sure," he scoffed, definitely getting on John's nerves. "It's been six months. When has he ever not managed to make friends if we stayed anywhere that long?" Kid had a point. "You know someone's offered to take him home by now. Given him a place to stay."

Dean was right. John's youngest made friends easily, always warmed up to people and they warmed to him. Even in his element - at school - where he was most confident, Sam still exuded motherless child and people always wanted to look after him. He wouldn't be left alone this week. Now that he had time to think about it, John believed it just as Dean did. Didn't matter though, this whole discussion was insane and John wasn't going to risk further injury to Dean based on wishful thinking and a strong maybe.

"You think you've got it all figured out, don't you?" John didn't try to hide his condescension. "Well, smartass, who's to say he hasn't skipped out on tomorrow's classes and left already?"

"You kiddin' me? We're talking Sam here." Apparently Dean wasn't holding back his disdain either. "He won't bail. Not if that's gonna risk his ride."

All right, so Dean was probably right on that count too. Sam might be willing to disrespect his father but there was no way in hell he'd disrespect his scholarship. If Sam had classes until three the Friday before spring break, he'd be there until three. But, in the end, Dean's argument didn't matter. There was still the very real complication of Dean being hurt and unable to hold his head up, let alone get around. John shouldn't have let this argument get this far.

"Okay, point taken," he conceded, but ready to drop his bomb. "But I still can't say yes to this. Won't. I will not in good conscience take you out of this hospital when you're this hurt. Christ, Dean, you can't even sit up by yourself." John hadn't meant to, but his fear for Dean's wellbeing slipped out. Voice rough with emotion trying to disguise itself as reason, he added, "Even if I was willing, sport, there's no way Rowe'll release you in the shape you're in."

"Then Dean Wyman is signing out AMA. But even if I do, I'm not an idiot, Dad. I know I can't do this without you." His voice cracking, Dean still managed to sound determined while utterly defeated at the same time.

John couldn't look Dean in the eye. Damn this fucking concussion, his son was on the verge again the way those eyes were swimming. Resolutely contemplating the floor, John couldn't believe he was even considering this. Damn him for having refused Dean the other night. He could've let him go. The kid might've gotten hurt if Sammy had been unreceptive but that definitely would've been preferable to hospitalized with a messed up head and emotions shot to hell.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to but I can't do this alone. I need your help, Dad. I need to see my brother."

The hamster in his head was turning the wheel a mile a minute as John desperately tried to come up with a compromise. Going to get Sam was _not_ a viable option; he simply wasn't willing to leave Dean the eight or nine hours it would take to make the return trip. Never mind the fact that John's only greeting once he got to Palo Alto might be a door slammed in his face.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't being fair. Sammy would come if he found out Dean was hurt. _Wouldn't he?_

"What if we called? Asked him to come here?" He hadn't really meant to voice that. Wasn't honestly sure if Dean could handle it right now if Sam said no.

And Dean wouldn't look John in the eye. Slumping back further against the bed, a loose thread hanging from the edge of his blanket had suddenly captured his attention. Seconds passed and when it became abundantly clear that Dean had no response to give, John stilled the fidgety hand with his own, demanding an answer, "Dean?"

"He won't pick up." Whispered words, reverberating with pain. "He never does."

Dean's eyes remained downcast, long lashes shadowing the smudges still residing underneath them and John could feel the grief radiating from Dean's every pore. Grasping at straws, an overwhelming desire to help his son drove him as he suggested, "What if we called from my cell?"

"You think I haven't?"

_Oh. _

_Ouch._

Shaking off the hit, John tried again. "Then what about from here?"

"What? No, he--" Dean seemed bewildered all of a sudden and John abruptly realized he was pressing too hard. Dean had his reasons for balking, namely having already suffered more than enough rejection from Sam in the manner of ignored phone calls. "I mean, we never--" Choking off his words, he finally looked at his father and there it was, that all consuming grief and misery laid bare for John to see. John realized exactly where Dean was going with his disjointed thoughts. . . twenty years of sidestepping cops, creditors and CFS and drilling into his boys' heads to never pick up a call from an unknown number was a hard lesson to forget. No wonder Dean was acting as jittery as a cornered animal. Sammy picking up his phone would be damn near as much of a rejection of their family and his upbringing as his slamming out the door six months ago had been.

"Okay," John cut in, his hand shooting forward to grasp Dean's wrist, offering up a reassuring squeeze. No longer able to bear witness to his son's heartache but at a loss as to how to help him, he simply repeated, "Okay," and tried to get his own churning emotions under control.

Well, that was it then. They were screwed, shit outta luck and up the proverbial--

_Damn it._

_All. To. Hell._

He was going to cave. Unable to stop himself, John looked at the clock and began calculating. Fours hours to drive there, maybe five with stops to check on Dean, taking it slow. Even though it was almost two a.m. now, they still had plenty enough time. Dean could still rest up here. John would have to get some more sleep too, make sure he didn't run his kid's car into a guardrail. The idea was still crazy, but do-able.

Finally meeting Dean's eyes, the longing reflected there just ripped John through to his core. It was a fact that Dean never really asked anything of his father and despite his better judgment John just didn't have it in him anymore to say no. _Of all the times to throw in the towel, Winchester. _"Damn it, Dean."

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes, it's a fucking yes," he growled, adding, "Let me see what I can do about getting you sprung," as he stood up and headed toward the door. Before leaving the room though he spun back to his son. He couldn't let the kid celebrate yet, not without adding -- sternly, "You realize this has one condition applied to it. . . we're only leaving if that Cat-scan comes back clean."

"Deal." Dean grinned wide. John hadn't seen that smile in a long time and hadn't realized until just now how much he'd missed it.

"All right then," John said, as he turned back to the door, emotions warring between elation that he'd made Dean happy and trepidation that this was a gargantuan error in judgment.

"Hey, Dad?"

John reined in his impatience. Didn't Dean realize how hard this was? How the dread coursing through his veins was already insisting that he take his words back? Delaying his walk down the hall to the nurses' station was not helping matters.

At all.

"Yeah?"

"You won't regret this."

On first glance, Dean looked so cocksure. But John knew his son, knew to look beyond the brashness and the smirks to see into his soul. And those eyes were telling him now that his son was scared too. And that he was looking for the reassurance that, even after God knew how many years of failure, only his father could give him. "I know, kiddo. I know." If only John could believe it himself.

To be continued.

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_Additional notes: For the TV trivia buffs out there, technically the name of Irene Ryan's character of "Granny" on the Beverly Hillbillies was "Daisy Moses". Still, I figured most people, the Winchesters included, would think of her as a Clampett, just like Jed and Elly May. _


	7. Ch 7 Deployment

**Armistice**

**Summary:** A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Chapter 7 of 9 in total.

**Rating:** T, language.

**Spoilers:** None.

**Disclaimers:** See my profile page.

**Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings:** Penny is once again deserving of major thanks here for asking for _more_ which has definitely enhanced this chapter. Shout outs go to both Jennie and Heather for their willingness to share their time and knowledge also. In general, chapter 6 seemed to bring out the most thoughtful, detailed reviews and you can't imagine how flattering it is for me to have readers like yourselves take the time to do that. Thanks to everyone reading the story and sending feedback and especially those of you sharing your thoughts with me about these wonderful Winchester men.

* * *

Chapter 7 - Deployment 

They'd been traveling southwest along I-80 when John started paying attention to the upcoming Sacramento exits. Eagle 96.9 was playing _Hotel California, _though the radio was turned down so low that Don Henley's voice was barely discernable over the asphalt-eating rumblings of the Impala. He'd wanted the city behind him before pulling over but, in an effort to keep the ride as smooth as possible, he'd been driving slower by far than the norm. Had Dean been aware, he no doubt would've had something to say about the continued geriatric behavior of his old man. The kid was oblivious though, two hours into the trip and he hadn't uttered a sound since protesting his banishment to the backseat when they'd first left St. Mary's.

John had barely merged onto the interstate outside of Reno before Dean had been out like a light. He tried not to worry, telling himself that hurt or not, this was just what Dean did. As much as John knew his son's love for the car spawned his obsessive insistence on being behind its wheel, the father was also well aware of another much simpler reason for it: that ever since Dean was a baby, riding in the Impala could always put him under better than any tranquilizer on the market.

Fond memories of his and Mary's discovery of that trick brought a smile to John's face. Dean hadn't been home a month from the hospital when a bout with colic had sent the first-time parents into a panic John would just as soon never admit to a soul. Their baby boy had started shrieking inconsolably and, even after nearly four hours, nothing Mary or John had tried to do could soothe the little guy. Dean wouldn't sleep at all and had screamed his little lungs out, his tiny, perfect lips nearly blue from lack of oxygen. Petrified, the new parents had loaded their infant into the car, John speeding toward Lawrence Memorial with the Chevy's engine gunning for all it was worth.

Not five minutes into the drive, Dean had started to calm and though he'd still hiccupped some discomfort, his rigid body had relaxed and his color had returned to its natural pink. By the time they'd reached the hospital, he was sleeping peacefully. Quick studies, the young family had frequently gone on short drives to help calm everyone's nerves after that, particularly once Dean had started teething. Sometimes, to give Mary a break, father and son would go on little excursions, just the two of them. And Dean would sleep peacefully in his car-seat while his dad softly sang along to the best of southern rock.

If John had already held too much of an attachment to the Impala prior to the birth of his first child, the sedan's value increased tenfold once Dean had come along. It was no wonder his son loved the car, he certainly came by it honestly.

John knew that the sleep inducing quality of the Impala never changed for Dean. As a child, he could never do homework or read in the car without passing out and, even once he got older, research was pretty much out of the question too. Fact was, if Dean wasn't in the driver's seat, or leading a conversation from the passenger seat, he was out cold.

Despite this knowledge, John was still unnerved by the stillness behind him. Several glances in the rearview - angled not for optimal driving conditions but rather to give him a glimpse of his son - showed him the same image every time: Dean curled on his side, his head on a pillow _borrowed_ from the motel and huddled beneath a blanket. If John allowed his gaze to linger, he could spot the black stitches and mottled bruising stark against the smooth skin of Dean's forehead. He couldn't allow it though, banishing the distraction from his sight and thoughts. Ruminating over past mistakes would hardly be a forgivable excuse if he ended up wrecking Dean's car.

Eyeing a gas station with ample parking to make a pit stop, John signaled his turn and then reached behind him and lightly slapped the back of the seat a couple of times, giving Dean a chance to wake and orient himself. "Up and at 'em, sunshine, we're pullin' over."

Dean didn't react at all so John tried again but when neither sound nor movement breached the bench seat barrier between them, John could feel the pounding of adrenaline start to pump through his veins. Shouting, "Come on, Dean, Come _on_. Wake your ass up!" He pulled into the parking area, nearly taking out the oncoming Mini that managed to live up to its name and fit into the blind spot between the Impala's front and passenger side windows. "Fuck!" He cursed, swerving to avoid the piss-ant car, and skidded to a stop at the nearest curb, away from incoming and outgoing traffic, so that he could check on his son. Right now.

Scrambling out of the Impala, John swung the back door nearest Dean's head open wide, yelling Dean's name once again then practically stuttering to a stop as he was met with the bed-headed and bewildered appearance of his oldest son. "Dad, what the fuck?"

"Dean," John breathed, suddenly finding himself sinking until his butt was planted on the curb just outside of the car.

Scrubbing a hand across his face, Dean left it there, pressing it against his brow. "What's going on?" Dean rasped, confusion and pain pinching his features.

"You weren't waking up." The words came out clipped, an accusation and John forcibly reined in his flaring temper. Once again his fear was morphing into something more volatile and he stopped himself before he let himself take it out on Dean. Sucking in a few calming breaths, his voice was shakier than he would've cared to admit when he added, "You had me worried there, kiddo."

"So, slamming me against the front seat was supposed to help?"

Dean's look was incredulous but John knew what his son was doing. Using humor and sarcasm to let his dad off the hook, absolve him of any blame while still acknowledging the fuck-up. It was a familiar game between father and son and though John knew there were times when he should step up and apologize, he also knew doing so would be too uncomfortable for both of them. So he did what he usually did, grabbed the ball and played along. "Got your attention, didn't it?"

"Next time try texting me," Dean groaned, bringing up both arms and crossing them over his brow, eyes closed beneath them as he sunk back deeper into the seat. As though suddenly remembering the purpose behind their trip, his arms abruptly dropped to his sides as his eyes flew open and he blurted, "Shit, where are we? What time is it?"

John placed a restrictive palm against Dean's chest. "Cool your jets, sport, we're just east of Sacramento and there's plenty of time left on the clock."

_"A short way to go and a long time to get there,"_ Dean murmured in response and John would have laughed at the mangled _Smokey and the Bandit_ lyric if not for the fact that the kid had just closed his eyes as though getting back to sleep was next on the agenda. Before John could correct him though, Dean's face worked itself into a thoughtful frown and he muttered, "Did you say Sacramento?" Followed by, "Guess it's time to play _Who Wants to be a Millionaire_ then, huh, Regis?"

This time John did laugh, relief flooding him with the knowledge that Dean's memory for distances and travel times was clearly working at a hundred percent, as was his penchant for pop culture references. "Hey, back up now, wasn't I just the Bandit?"

"Uh uh, no way. _I'm_ the Bandit," he protested, eyes actually sparkling, hinting at a mischief John hadn't seen in months. "_I've_ got the hot car, you've got the truck." Dean grinned then, despite his still obvious discomfort, pointed to his father and added smugly, "_You're_ Jerry Reed."

"So that must make Sam Fred," John offered and then winced as the oxygen was immediately siphoned from the earth's atmosphere. _Nice going, Winchester, you stupid ass. Did you forget you banished that son?_

A year ago John's comeback would've been appreciated. Not only because Sam's shaggy mop and puppy dog eyes were definitely fodder for a comparison with the loveable hound, but also because of the good feelings brought on by fond memories of the movie. Memories of two giggling boys huddled against either side of their father, eating pizza and popcorn in bed and rooting for Jerry, Sally and good ole boy Burt. The three Winchester men laughing at the crashes and getaways, while Dean and his dad drooled over the sweet Trans Am that damn near stole the movie.

_But there was no beer in Texarkana _today. Not with so much water under the bridge and especially not with an injured and addled Dean who did _not_ need the reminder of what would likely never be again thrown in his face. Sobering immediately, John changed the subject, back to business. "Let's do that Q 'n A, son. Get back on the road. Daylight's burning."

Given how well Dean was remembering his movie trivia and geography, the question session was more than a little redundant as far as John was concerned. After making his "Sam as a Bassett Hound" blunder though, John really didn't have a clue what to say to make things better so, at least following Doctor Rowe's instructions gave him a convenient, if abrupt, segue.

His knees and back protested as he picked himself up off the curb but John needed to take a good look at Dean, check his pupils as well as gauge how easily he'd respond to the questions asked of him. Thankfully the back seat area rivaled a hockey rink so John had enough room to crawl into the back, squat next to Dean and hover appropriately.

"Dude, personal space," Dean protested, as John pulled a penlight from an inside pocket and leaned in toward the kid's face, the pall that had settled over them once again subdued by Dean's willingness to forgive and crack a joke all in one fell swoop.

"Eyes front," John ordered, ignoring the wisecrack, and Dean capitulated, any further protests expressed only with a weary sigh.

"So, what's the verdict?" He asked, blinking rapidly as John shut off the offending beam.

"We're making progress," John answered, pleased with what he saw. The improvement from twenty-four hours before was definite. He wasn't about to give Dean anything remotely resembling the green light to freedom though. "I think we can safely downgrade you from a dinner plate to a saucer," he added, Dean's unappreciative scowl prompting a returned smile from his dad. "All right, give me your birth date?"

"January 24th, 1979," Dean answered, sounding very bored.

"And where were we bunking before heading to Reno?"

"Jim's place," Dean replied, continuing when John asked for more details. "You know. . . Jim Murphy, Blue Earth, Minnesota. Dude's got grey hair, a grey beard, wears a funny collar and has one hell of an awesome arsenal."

"Can't argue that. Okay, so give me the Impala's plate number?" To liven things up a bit, John decided he'd discard the list given to him by Dean's doctor and just wing it. He was rewarded with an eye roll this time.

"KAZ 2Y5." And then Dean added, just to prove a point no doubt, "The Sierra's is CSG 8R3."

Kid could never be accused of not being observant. "Okay, hotshot, tell me which Skynyrd album was released right before the crash?"

Much to John's surprise, Dean actually looked stumped. And then a little hurt. "C'mon, Dad, concussion boy here, remember?" Dean was almost sulking now and warning bells were starting to go off in John's head yet again.

"Christ, Dean, you _know_ this," John pressed, unwilling to give up any quarter when he wanted to believe, despite the killer of a headache he knew his son still had, that Dean was doing so much better now. He _had_ to believe it; otherwise the concept of leading him into the lion's den of a Winchester family reunion was just too daunting. "You know you do," he insisted. "Just think, damn it."

For someone who could think on his feet as quickly as Dean Winchester, his father couldn't help feeling twinges of unease as he watched Dean close eyes that seconds before had expressed hurt and irritation and then purse his lips in obvious concentration. When those lips started moving though, without uttering a sound, John realized that Dean was mentally listing the band's albums. When he came to the fifth, he smiled triumphantly and proclaimed, _"Street Survivors."_

"That's my boy," John praised, giving the kid's forearm a squeeze and beaming as though watching Dean shoot and hit ten of ten targets for the first time. His memory _was_ getting better which meant _he_ was getting better. It would just take some more time was all.

Rummaging through the duffel bag on the floor near his feet, John pulled out a bottle of spring water and Dean's woefully inadequate meds. Twisting off the caps of both, he tapped three Tylenol into his palm and then handed everything over to Dean. His son's color drained as he moved to sit up and John cursed himself for being so optimistic that he forgot Dean's frailty. "Freeze," he demanded, stilling Dean's movements with his hands and voice.

"Good plan," Dean groaned, now pressing the bottle of water against his forehead, eyes slammed shut yet again. "Sonofabitch."

"Bad?" John asked, concern softening his voice.

"I'll live," Dean practically croaked. "Just may not enjoy it for a few more days."

"Damn it, Dean." The uncharacteristic admission had John damn near ready to head for the nearest hospital.

Dean opened his eyes, met his father's with a soft, completely uncalled for apologetic gaze. "I'm okay, Dad."

"Better be," John said, more to himself than Dean, then reached forward and worked his arm beneath Dean's pillow. "Okay, let me do the work. Take a drink."

Dean allowed John to raise the pillow a few inches and his head and neck had no choice but to follow. Again John didn't like Dean's fading color, but at least this time he was able to swallow the Tylenols with some water. "That gonna stay down?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Dean answered, though panting slightly.

"Uh huh." John didn't really believe him but for both their sakes, he'd humor Dean. Changing the subject, he said, "I pulled into a rest stop. You need to hit the head before we get out of Dodge?" He was still supporting Dean, not wanting to lie him down if he was going to have to get up again. _When_ he was going to have to get up again.

"Nah, I'm good," he repeated. Clearly that minimal amount of movement had taken its toll. John felt sick knowing he was about to ask so much more. He'd made up his mind though and nothing was going to change it.

Applying a light but steady pressure to the back of Dean's neck, he prodded, "All right, come on then. I want you up front with me this time. . . _Before_ I drive us into a tree." The latter he hadn't actually meant to say out loud.

"You want me where?" Dean sounded incredulous, signs of misery surpassed by looks of confusion and definitely irritation. John couldn't blame him. After all, it had been dad's insistence that had relegated Dean to the back in the first place.

John was never very good when it came to justifying his actions or decisions though. When he tried, the words always came out harsh. Like now. "Look, I can't hear you back here." John kept the _and that terrifies the hell out of me_ to himself. Dean didn't need to hear how his lack of response just minutes earlier had scared his father shitless.

Of course John knew full well that Dean had it figured out anyway, could read John as well or better than even his mother ever had. Would no doubt give him a hard time about it too. "And somehow that's my fault?" The kid was definitely testy.

"I didn't say that. The fucking engine drowns everything out."

"Don't listen to him, baby."

_Oh, for God's sake._ Dean had practically cooed the words, stroking the seatback beside him as though it was the family pet. Yup, Dean knew his old man was being a pussy, so John was going to get tormented in return. In truth it was probably a fair trade but John had no intention of letting Dean in on that.

"Dean. Can it," he growled. "Let's do this."

"Fine."

"Good."

They were both being bitchy but John knew it was for the same reason. Neither was looking forward to this next ordeal. If rising up just a little to drink some water had hurt, getting him from the back to the front was going to be agony. "Okay, grab hold and do _not_ let go." His gruffness deteriorating only slightly, John still retained the command in his voice. Dean needed his father to take control now, to trust that John would get him through the pain.

It was going to be awkward but John did not want to lay Dean's head back down, which would be inevitable if he climbed out of the car first, so they were going to have to get out of the car in two steps. With one arm still beneath Dean's head and neck, John raised him up a bit more, allowing his other access to Dean's back as well. Holding Dean against his chest, he began to move forward - or in Dean's case backward - sliding him along the seat toward its edge. Whether he was following orders or just reacting on instinct, Dean's arms found John's back and neck and he held on like he was drowning, a deep, guttural groan, muffled not nearly enough by its proximity to his father's neck, escaping his throat as John moved him. Christ, they hadn't even gotten to the difficult part yet and _John_ was ready to puke.

"We're almost out, bud." John promised, as his boots met the bottom lip of the door frame. "Hang on," he instructed, waiting for Dean's affirmative and his grip to strengthen before continuing. Loosening his own grasp enough so that he could extricate the pillow sandwiched between his arm and Dean, he let it drop to the seat while he re-gripped, ensuring he had his son's head and neck supported fully. Satisfied, he maneuvered his right leg outside of the car, readying himself for step two. . . standing and pulling Dean up and out of the Impala as he did so. In one smooth, hopefully non-excruciating, motion.

_Right, and wraiths are benevolent creatures. _

Dean wasn't talking, if not for the panting breaths John could feel against his neck, he would've expected his son's bottom lip to be clenched firmly between his teeth by now. John wasn't sure if that was a good sign or bad. Either way, the kid was hurting and it wasn't over yet. _You really are a selfish bastard, aren't you?_ Great, now was not the time for Sam to make a return engagement in John's head. Shaking off the thoughts and steeling himself, he whispered into Dean's hair, "You ready for this?"

"No."

Despite his response, John could feel Dean tense his whole body in anticipation. "Me neither, dude," John replied thickly, moisture welling in his eyes at the resulting huff of laughter that feathered across his throat. At that moment, John's hold on his son became a true hug and he allowed himself the indulgence, pulling him in closer and resting his cheek against Dean's hair.

Already enveloped in his father's arms, Dean couldn't have resisted if he'd tried. He didn't. In fact the grip on John's neck was so brutal, John wasn't sure if he'd felt rather than heard the murmured words, "Just get it over with, Dad. Please," coming from his son's lips. Didn't matter. It was time.

"On three," John didn't hesitate, bracing Dean against him at _one_.

At _three_ both John and Dean were outside of the vehicle, John's mantra of, "Okay, okay. You're okay," failing miserably at counteracting Dean's, "Oh, fuck, fuck, Dad, fuck."

Despite the vice-like hold they had on each other, Dean still swayed on his way up and John scrambled to re-grip, to take on more of Dean's weight, to ensure they both didn't kiss the concrete.

Despite Dean's unsteadiness, John kept moving, making their way to the passenger side of the vehicle. The sooner Dean was in the front, the sooner he'd be okay again.

Downhill being easier than up, getting Dean into the front seat was still an ordeal for the kid but not quite as bad. He was sitting now, head arched back against the seat. John watched in trepidation as Dean's Adam's apple bobbed along the curve of his throat. Back at the hospital the kid hadn't had a hint of nausea for quite some time which had been the main reason for Rowe's willingness to release him. Looking at Dean now, John couldn't help but wonder bitterly (and, more than likely, irrationally) if St. Mary's just needed the spare bed. "You gonna hurl?" He asked, worried about the trembling shoulder beneath his grasp.

"No. Just give me a minute." If that croak was supposed to reassure John, it didn't. Arguing wasn't going to get them any closer to Palo Alto though so John swallowed the lump of unease clogging his throat and gave Dean's shoulder a comforting squeeze before closing the door and quickly making his way around into the driver's seat.

Waiting a few minutes for Dean to regain more control, John reached into the back, pulling the pillow and blanket over the seat. Dean made a weak grab for the pillow but John held it back, placing it next to his own leg, then pointing to it and gruffly stating, "Here."

"What?"

"Lie. Down. Here," John insisted, slapping the pillow for emphasis this time.

"No freakin' way."

"It's not open for discussion, Dean."

"Oh, come on--"

"Son," John cut in harshly, then tempered his tone. It wasn't exactly the first time one of his sons had given him grief over this. Trying a new tack, he continued. "Look, your head's fucking well ready to fall off and if that's gonna happen it's less of a drop from here." He didn't even try to maintain his poker face when he added, "We might be able to salvage something."

"Oh, you're all heart, aren't you?" Dean was working his way up to accepting his fate. John knew he just needed another push.

"Think you've got me confused with someone else, sport," John replied, sounding more serious and then fairly growling, but without any punch whatsoever, "Now, Dean."

"Fine," Dean sighed, full of Sammy-like exasperation, as he slumped sideways along the seatback, sliding down toward an unsuspecting John.

"Shit," John swore, lunging for Dean as the kid impersonated a groaning redwood being felled in dense cover. He had too much faith in his father's reflexes but John did catch him, guiding his head onto the pillow until Dean was settled on his left side, knees bent at sharp angles and his boots pushed up against the passenger door.

Despite the tension releasing barbs they'd just exchanged, given what Dean had suffered getting out of the car, John knew damn well that changing altitude again had hurt like holy hell. Aside from trying to avoid the very real potential of Dean tossing his breakfast all over the seat and floor-mats, John truly did want to make this as easy on him as possible.

He was overreacting. No doubt about it. But Dean not springing awake, ready-for-action, like he usually was when John woke him up, had genuinely freaked his father out. Having Dean up front with him meant he could keep a closer eye on him, check on him without having to pull over, make sure he was still breathing. . .

_Shit. _

_Melodramatic much?_ Okay, so maybe John _was_ losing it. He now had _two_ voices in his head and they both belonged to his sons.

So be it. It wasn't the first time a full-grown Dean had been forced to sleep like this. It had been a cruel twist of nature that had Sam's long limbs trumping Dean's claim for backseat sleeping seniority by the time Sammy was sixteen. It had been one of the driving forces behind John handing over the Impala keys to Dean. Neither John nor his sons could be considered small and the Impala had simply finally been outgrown by their family. But John could never have sold it and knew in his heart that, like his father, Dean would never outgrow his attachment to the car. So Bobby found John a new truck - new in the sense that it was younger than Sam - and Dean was given the Impala. John would never regret it. Hell, even Sammy had approved.

Before totally losing himself in any further sentimental introspection, John added covering Dean with the blanket and tucking it around him to his list of sappy, grandmotherly acts. Dean pushed John's hands away, grumbling something about no longer being five, but John chose to ignore him. . . aside from adding insult to injury and lightly patting the kid's hair as he told Dean to be a good boy and get some more shut-eye. _That_ earned him the exasperated yet resigned sigh he'd been expecting. Satisfied that he'd sufficiently tormented his son, John popped in one of Dean's mix tapes and hit the road again. And, by the time I-80 crossed number five, Dean was sleeping peacefully while his dad lightly tapped his fingers to the best of southern rock.

To be continued.

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_Additional notes: Lyrics to East Bound and Down, the Smokey and the Bandit theme, have been borrowed (and mangled) without the permission of Mr. Jerry Reed. _


	8. Ch 8 Reconnaissance

**Armistice**

**Summary:** A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Chapter 8 of 9.

**Rating:** T, language. "F-bombs" in abundance, if not excess.

**Spoilers:** None.

**Disclaimers:** See my profile page.

**Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings:** The last number of days have been rocky and I should be kissing Penny's feet, not only for working on the beta on her birthday - **Happy Birthday, girl!** - but also for working on it while dealing with a tough, tough personal loss. My heart goes out to you, Penn. This chapter is dedicated to Penny and Jack. To everyone reading and sending feedback, I truly hope you enjoy this chapter.

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Chapter 8 - Reconnaissance 

Before heading for California with Dean, John had sacked out at the hospital for a while, had breakfast with his kid and then left Dean to rest while he did some running around. He'd gone back to the motel, showered and changed again and then packed up their things along with the pillow Dean was presently using. Upon checking out, topping up the gas tank and their supply of both Tylenol and bottled water, John had taken care of a few other errands as well. Namely, calling Jim with an update, or rather tearing a strip off his voicemail, and then finding a library with internet so he could figure out where best to find Sam. His sons were right. . . it really _was_ time to pick up a laptop.

In the past six months, both Jefferson and Caleb had been on hunts south of Frisco and, unknown to Dean - which was something else to add to the list of John's regrets - they'd checked up on Sam. In fact, Jefferson, who hated winter with as much vengeance as he had for shape-shifters, had been hunting near San Jose just a few weeks before and had scouted out Sam then. So, provided John's youngest hadn't moved from his student residence, John already had a head start on both recon and intel.

Finding Sammy anywhere but at his residence just wasn't feasible though, at least not today. The campus was huge, as was the building housing Sam's last class of the day, and John didn't want to leave Dean alone in the car while his dad tried to find his brother. Not to mention the fact that the building had at least three sets of doors that he'd consider likely candidates for Sam to exit out of and one man sure as hell couldn't cover them all.

With very little time to kill, curiosity still got the better of him though and John found himself driving along Campus Drive East, checking out the grounds and the buildings he'd seen this morning only as photographs on Stanford's website. Sam's new home. Hell, his new world. The place was impressive in every way that counted. . . the perfect environment for a bright kid like Sam.

Groups of students walked the grounds, crisscrossing the path before him and John couldn't help but marvel at their youthful enthusiasm. The atmosphere was buzzing with positive energy, pretty typical no doubt of the last day of classes before spring break at any given school. He was feeling damn old as he watched these kids almost literally frolic and, as he reached down beside him and settled a hand atop his sleeping son's shoulder, he was struck with familiar pangs of shame and regret. Both of his boys deserved this life if they wanted it and he genuinely felt guilty as hell that he'd sunk so low as to try to make Sam feel ashamed for desiring it.

There was no denying he regretted that last fight with Sam, had regretted his words and that fateful ultimatum almost the very moment they'd been spewed from his lips. He knew Jim, Bobby and, worst of all, even Dean blamed stubborn Winchester pride on his unwillingness to hunt down Sammy and take the words back. John was willing to admit that, in part, they weren't wrong but in reality the pride in question wasn't all John's. Sam had been equally ruthless in his own offensive and John was still pissed with him for it. Couldn't help feeling that way. Belittling the work that John did - the work that his big brother risked his neck doing every damn day - had been every bit as nasty and unreasonable and just plain wrong as had been John's ridicule of Sam's goals and dreams. The Winchesters were saving lives, for God's sake and John adamantly, obstinately refused to apologize for that. Refused to feel like some sub-human species of mankind because of his choices.

_Bitter much, John?_

And there it was. . . the crux of the situation. Six months after their blow-up and John could still get fired up about it. Mad as hell. And, despite what some people might think about his temperament, John knew that age and life experience had actually mellowed him _somewhat_ when it came to holding grudges. With one noteworthy, hell-spawned exception. And, if _he_ was still touchy, his youngest son was guaranteed to still be as volatile as TNT.

In so knowing, John also realized that it would have to fall on his shoulders to extend the olive branch to Sam. Hell, he loved his son, missed him terribly, so after over six months of time and distance, he could honestly say that he was willing to swallow his pride and do it. Of course he was.

Only, despite the fact that he was presently casing Sam's neighborhood and haunts like a stalker preparing a B&E, he knew deep down through to his marrow that it was still too soon for a reunion. After all, when it came to gauging Sammy's state of mind, John had an ace up his sleeve.

He had Dean.

Dean was his Sammy barometer and, if Sam was still rejecting any contact with the brother he'd worshipped most his life, the brother whose only crime had been refusing to be bullied into taking sides between two inflexible, irrational idiots, John knew fucking well an attempted reconciliation with Sam right now would end in failure and disaster.

Especially now, damn it. One look at the shape Dean was in and Sam was going to blow a gasket. Christ, Dean _had_ to know this and yet here they were anyway. Which was proof positive of just how royally John had fucked up by denying Dean the right to see his brother days ago, when he was still in one piece and had his head on straight.

So John had put himself smack dab in the middle of the proverbial rock and a hard place. . . Show up on Sammy's doorstep with a badly injured and vulnerable Dean and validate everything Sam had always hated about the hunt and their lives. Risk irreparable damage and further estrangement from his youngest or, pull a U-turn right now, while Dean was unaware and still sleeping, and hightail it out of the state with his tail between his legs. Betray the son who never asked anything of his father until now, who nearly died desiring the one thing John was once again considering denying him and who was willing to endure the emotional and physical pain he'd been suffering all day in order to get it.

John Winchester might be a miserable prick much of the time - hell, the lineup of both friend and foe willing to agree formed at the left - but he would not be one today. Today he wouldn't say no to Dean and he could only hope like hell, pray to Mary and, most importantly, have faith in Dean that neither the day nor the Winchesters would end in total ruin.

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Taking note of the street names as he passed them, John found his bearings and worked his way toward Branner Hall, Sammy's impressive, recently renovated residence. John had been glad to discover the residence housed only freshmen, his fears for Sam's safety extending beyond the supernatural and into the domain of humanity and all its frailties and temptations. Just as Dean had stated in the hospital, he knew Sam would make friends easily and, whether he was being logical or not, John just preferred the idea of Sam hanging around kids his age and younger, rather than the alternative. Those that hopefully shared first year jitters and the innocence that came with them. _Way to fantasize, Captain Naiveté._

_Great, head's getting awfully crowded with Dean in there too._

Maybe it was because they were in California, or maybe it was because Stanford was the west coast equivalent to "Ivy League", but the Impala wasn't making much of an impression cruising down the roadway, both in appearance or in noise level. Its throaty rumble and complementary classic rock were easily drowned out by the so-called_ music_ blasting on the grounds and from the speakers of BMWs, Infinitis, and Acuras, the general party atmosphere definitely overshadowing any pretense of higher education this sunny afternoon.

The carnival-like din was carrying through to the university residences also, with Sam's being no exception. As John rounded the bend toward the back of the large building and the equally impressive Stanford U. Arboretum across from it, he discovered, with a mixture of delight and trepidation, that he and Dean were in luck. . . it looked like the unseasonably warmer weather had inspired a spur-of-the-moment party on the property and already some of the students were swarming likes bees to honey.

Spotting Sam wasn't difficult - it wasn't as though his kid had shrunk in these months - though John was a little surprised to see the boy this soon. It was barely after three o'clock and, given Dean's insistence that Sam wouldn't skip out on any classes, John had figured he'd have some time to scout out the best vantage point for staking out the place. He supposed class might have let out early. The idea seemed reasonable, though frankly, what did John really know about university life? Aside from brief but necessary sojourns to meet with their experts on folklore and the like during the occasional hunt, all of John's post-secondary classroom experience had been in the hands of Uncle Sam.

John truly hadn't expected to have such a physical reaction to seeing his youngest. After all, Jefferson had told him that Sam had looked damn good when he'd swung through Palo Alto last time. But, even from a distance, John could see how true Jeff's assessment had been and goddamn if John didn't think his heart was going to explode from witnessing it in person. Relief, joy, and pride filled him, along with an unsavory but impossible to deny hint of anger and hurt. John pushed the latter aside, felt his chest constrict, his breath hitch and his eyes prickle with emotion at the very much welcome sight of his wayward boy. Safe and sound.

Feeling oddly shell-shocked, John hadn't realized he'd removed his foot from the gas until the sharp bleat coming from the horn of a Carrera following close behind startled the crap out of him. "Shit," he swore, suddenly realizing they'd nearly coasted up the road's slight incline to a complete stop in Sam's line of sight should he happen to look this way. Careful not to floor it and draw unwanted attention, not to mention keep Dean from doing a face-plant into the dash, John gingerly accelerated, thankful that if heads did turn, the bright yellow Porsche would stand out significantly more than the Impala's black against the backlit strip of oaks lining the perimeter of the arboretum to his left.

"What the--?" Dean awoke with a start, surprising John, despite the noise of the 911's horn and John's cursing, along with their sudden, quickened pace. After all, only a couple of hours ago, Dean's unresponsiveness had aged his father ten years.

"Stay down," John commanded, harsher perhaps than necessary but then he _was_ trying to prevent Dean from bashing his head on the underside of the steering wheel. Not to mention being otherwise occupied turning onto the narrow laneway that bordered the park with one hand presently applying pressure to Dean's shoulder to make his point. "Wait until I park the damn car."

"He's insulting you again, baby," Dean groused, or rather groaned, but John noted with a certain satisfaction that Dean hadn't moved a muscle since told to stay put. "I take it," Dean continued, "from your oh-so sunny disposition, that we made it to Stanford?" Correction, one muscle was working overtime. Kid always was a little cranky when he woke up sick or over-tired.

John's hackles rose at the snark but before succumbing to any anger, he realized that Dean had no reason to think being here would make his dad anything other than pissy. Hell, despite how good John felt in getting that glimpse of Sam, his clipped words _did_ have a lot to do with seeing Sam too, just not quite in the way Dean was dreading. John was anxious and uptight because he had a sick kid on his hands who had no business being out of the hospital. And the one person who'd have no qualms about tearing him a new one over it, who never cowered from stepping into the role of John's conscience because he was determined his father didn't have one, was just across the street.

His only response though was a grunt as he pulled into the parallel parking spot beneath one of Stanford's many oaks, the Impala's inky black lost in its shadows. A trash can and park bench providing further camouflage from onlookers but not obstructing John's view of the partygoers opposite them in the slightest. "There," he sighed as he shifted into _park_, turned off Janis's _Piece of My Heart_ but didn't cut the engine, not intending to until he had some sort of handle on the situation. "We're here," he said, uncovering the blanket from Dean's torso, then slipping his hand beneath the shoulder Dean was lying on in order to grip his upper arm.

"Where exactly is here?" Dean asked, mild confusion evident, no doubt thanks to his newly wakeful state as much as the concussion. That his position in the car more than likely provided him with only a glimpse of oak leaves and sky didn't help matters either.

Despite his query, Dean didn't resist while his father basically manhandled him, John angling slightly in toward the car's center so that he could get his other arm around his son as he slid and shifted him onto his back. Typically words weren't required for Dean to understand what his dad was doing, in this case readying his hold to support Dean in a joint effort to get him upright in the seat.

The second John replied with, "Sam's. He's already here," though, Dean stiffened in his father's grasp and suddenly John found himself pushing down against Dean as he tried to sit up too quickly. John easily out-muscled Dean which, as evidenced by his colorful protests, clearly pissed him off but the effort ended up with both of them cursing as the agony John had fervently hoped to prevent made its grand entrance anyway. Dean's sharp gasp followed by a collapse into compliance inspired curt words from his father. "For Christ's sake, are you trying to kill yourself?"

Dean was once again in the too familiar position of hands cupped over his eyes and brow and when he uttered a mournful, "I just want to see my brother," John's anger deflated. Not surprisingly, especially this close to their goal, his son's emotions were yo-yoing again and John wasn't real happy with the fact that his own were piggybacking along. Someone had to stay rational here. Preferably the one without a concussion.

"I know," he said. "Just try to use your head for something other than a bulls-eye for once, all right?" Dean scoffed at the rebuke but John knew his kid got the message, even tempered as it was by John allowing his grip to change, giving way to an affectionate squeeze of Dean's arms. "C'mon, he's right across the street, let's get you upright."

The promise of finally seeing his brother definitely perked him up and Dean dropped his hand from his brow and grasped onto John's arm, planting the other palm-down on the seat to help gain a little leverage. When he was ready, Dean declared, "All set," gritting the words as he braced his boots against the car door and his shoulders against John.

John issued another three-count and on _three_, his grip became a bear hug used to draw Dean up against him, not stopping until his son's back was resting against his chest and raised high enough so that his head could be supported by John's neck and beneath his chin if necessary.

_If_ proved to be _when_ almost immediately, vertigo and pain wreaking havoc and John wasn't sure what shredded his insides more: the cry Dean tried too damn hard to stifle or the convulsive swallowing that John could feel where the shaky kid was pressed against his neck.

_This is insane, he's not up for this; he should be back in the hospital._ Dean would call John's thoughts traitorous but they were bombarding his father's mind like enemy fire. He held on, his cheek brushing the top of Dean's head, then resting there. Wanting nothing more than to rail against yet another injustice inflicted upon his eldest son, at the same time he wanted to shake Dean and bring him to his senses. Yell at him for pushing himself like this, asking too much of himself.

The irony didn't escape John; he'd been accused of too high expectations when it came to his boys - especially Dean - before. Jim, Bobby, school teachers, hell, Sammy had all had a go at John at one time or another. None could berate like he could himself though. Like he'd be doing this minute if he allowed time to wallow. But that wouldn't help Dean right now so he had to shrug the guilt off. Again.

Not until he felt Dean's trembling and hitching breaths ease, John spoke again. "You still with me?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, raspy, then, "Yeah" again, with more conviction, as though he needed to convince himself.

"Good," John returned and then straightening up somewhat, he used his shoulder and chin to nudge Dean's head away from him as he said, "Then take a look."

Huddled together as they were, Dean's eyes were mere inches from John's, so he was well aware of the view that would greet Dean once he mustered the courage to open his eyes. John knew he was scared, felt Dean's anxiety the moment he'd tensed at John's coaxing words. Knew it too because he'd been feeling the same way since the moment he'd crossed the state line -- fear that Sam would look unwell, hurt or unhappy and mostly, albeit selfishly, fear that Sam would no longer be _their_ Sam.

"Sammy." Whispered like a prayer, John felt a sparkle of tears spring to his eyes as the long suppressed emotions behind that one word bubbled out of Dean.

"Yeah," John breathed, acknowledging Dean's wonder. Sharing in it. Aside from what appeared to be an exchange from blue jeans to something trendier, Sam looked just like Sam. Same unkempt, too long hair, same t-shirt layered beneath cotton over-shirt, and still looking especially tall and gangly. Though deceptive to the casual eye, John hoped Dean's vision was cooperating well enough so that he'd be able to spot the contours that filled out Sam's tee, the muscles stretching the shirt across his chest and his broad back and shoulders. Proof that Sam was looking after himself.

"He's keeping in shape," Dean murmured, as though reading John's mind. Despite the exhaustion and pain radiating from Dean, there was still more than a hint of approval and even pride in his words.

"Looks like," John replied, resisting the irritation that wanted to let itself be known. The unreasonable little voice in his head - his own, this time - wondering why in hell Sam was staying so damn fit if he had no intention of ever hunting again? _Way to be rational, Winchester. _

_Okay, so that voice was definitely Dean again._

"Still hasn't figured out what a hair brush is," Dean cracked, eliciting a chuckle from his dad and John couldn't help but marvel at how in tune the kid was to his father's moods. Had he sensed John slipping into negativity? Of course he had. Knew just what to say to defuse it. Looked like the kid deserved a merit badge for the art of deflection too.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, both simply taking in the vision of Sam interacting with his friends. Happy. He looked happy. Normal. As though nothing evil lurked in the darkness. Nor ever had. John couldn't remember the last time his youngest had laughed and smiled like that, literally throwing his head back in carefree laughter. It warmed John's heart. . . and it hurt like hell and John didn't want to imagine the inner turmoil his emotionally overwrought oldest boy was suffering.

The arrival of a statuesque, stunning blonde onto the scene stole John's attention though as it did Dean's, whose whistling skills clearly hadn't been hindered by injury, though he kept it low, for their ears only. His father's reaction was simply, "Wow."

John had to admit, despite Jefferson's reports, he was a little surprised when this gorgeous epitome of a California girl made a beeline directly toward his son, only to be enveloped in his powerful arms and swept into a very intimate kiss. At Dean's, "Way to go, geek-boy," John looked away, uncomfortable, wondering what in hell happened to the awkward, inexperienced kid who'd blushed crimson at each re-telling of big brother Dean's conquests? Then again, John knew first-hand what a confidence builder and ego boost it was to have a beautiful woman on your arm. _So this must be--_

"Jessica." It was Dean's voice that finished John's thought and John immediately bristled at the subterfuge that clearly must have been going on under his oblivious nose.

"And just how do you know that?"

"Caleb," Dean answered, rebellion resonating in his tone. "You?" Accusation and rebuke this time.

"Jefferson." Returned with enough warning so that John hoped Dean would let it go. Clearly they'd both been keeping secrets from each other. Recruiting their own spies. In some twisted, warped Winchester way, it was actually kind of comical.

After a slight pause, "Huh," was Dean's only response until a slight puff of laughter escaped his lips. It really was scary sometimes how similar their thought processes were. "You could've told me, you know." Dean's words were spoken softly, as though he didn't want to ruin the harmony they'd just achieved. But, at the same time, John could tell his son wanted him to know the hurt he felt.

Justification was never his forte but for Dean's sake, he explained. "I figured whatever Jim was telling you was enough." He kept the _and didn't want to talk about it_ to himself. "Does it really make any difference?"

"Yeah it does, Dad. It really does."

The catch in Dean's voice drew John's concern and he shifted slightly to meet Dean's eyes. What he saw there was a mixture of approval and relief, the latter striking John hardest. With it, the realization that Dean had truly feared his father had stopped caring for Sam. John couldn't attribute the concussion to this. No, this wound had been festering for months and John had only his stubborn, indifferent, intolerant behavior to blame. It was no wonder Dean had kept Caleb's missions to himself. Nodding in understanding, all he could offer was a soft, "Okay."

It was enough though, apparently, as the intensity in Dean's gaze softened and his mouth quirked into a small smile as he said, "Okay back." They'd reached a truce once again.

With John, actions always did speak louder than words so, in an effort to further alleviate Dean's worry and remind him that his father wasn't always a stone cold bastard, he decided it was high time they made their move. Even if a lump the size of Texas was settling in his guts. "All right then." Lightly patting Dean's cheek, he then carefully shifted out from behind him so that the seat-back was supporting more of Dean than he was. Already reaching for the door handle, he asked, "You think you can manage vertical on your own while I go get your brother?"

"What? No. Dad, no!" Not at all the reaction John had expected, he wasn't sure if Dean's panicky words or his lunge to grab hold of the door handle and prevent it from opening shocked him more.

"Jesus, Dean. The hell?" Despite the hold he'd had on his son, Dean was now slung across John, wedged between his father and the steering wheel and shuddering in John's grasp. Dean's breathing was ragged, he was hurting again, but John still had to steel himself against shaking the shit out of him. He settled for gripping a bicep a little too hard before admonishing, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His forehead pressed into John's shoulder, Dean was still struggling to get his breathing under control and John automatically shifted from pissed off commander to anxious parent. Carding his fingers through now sweat-slicked hair, the soft, steady cadence of "Easy does it, easy" seemed to help settle Dean down and, once his breathing calmed, John maneuvered the lax body so that he could see Dean's face again.

His handsome features etched with pain, glistening eyes squinted against the hurt, leaking tracks of moisture down his too pale face and John shook his head in frustration and disappointment. "What in hell were you thinking?"

Upon meeting John's eyes, Dean dropped his gaze and John realized too late that the disappointment Dean read there was more than his ailing son could handle. "C'mon, bud. What's going on in that concussed head of yours?" Gentling his tone, he resorted to a juvenile jab beneath Dean's lower rib to hopefully get him to come around. "Spill it, dude."

His efforts had the desired affect and Dean lifted his gaze to meet his dad's again. He still looked like shit and for the umpteenth time this afternoon, John regretted having anything to do with Dean's discharge from St. Mary's. But, now that he was firmly committed to the act, was Dean having second thoughts?

"Dad, you can't go out there."

"Okay, listen. I'm not going anywhere," he placated. Christ, Dean sounded almost frantic and though John could fill his journal with all the reasons he believed a meeting with Sam would be a huge mistake right now, confusion spurred him to question _Dean's_ motives. "Why, son? Why don't you want me to go? What's changed?"

"Nothing's changed!" Dean answered sharply then sighed heavily before continuing. "He can't see me like this. You know that." Dean was avoiding John's eyes again, though before looking away, John could have sworn he saw a flash of guilt. "He'll freak," he added with emphasis and - this time John was certain - definitely with guilt. And John abruptly figured out why.

"Jesus, Dean. Is your brain that rattled?" God, John was furious. Refused even to acknowledge Dean's flinch. "For fuck's sake, I can _not_ believe you'd play me like this." John was on a roll and couldn't shut up if someone paid him to. Badly hurt, sick, and exhausted, Dean had known all along what he was doing. . . had conned his father _and_ his doctor into what was clearly a too early release from the hospital. Just so he could drive to the coast and covertly watch his brother from across the fucking street. "Just what in the hell is wrong with you? Are you really that desperate?"

John couldn't ignore Dean's flinch this time, the kid had recoiled as if he'd been struck. So much so that John backed off as well. Dean didn't look away from John though, met his father's frustrated, pissed off scowl with a look that was so gut-wrenching, John felt like crawling beneath the dash. Playing across his son's face was a mixture of defiance and deep, deep hurt, and John wanted nothing more than to take back those last accusing words that had callously called Dean on the desperation so clearly reflected in those expressive eyes. Words that had dared judge a big brother for needing to see the boy he'd spent his own lifetime raising. _John Winchester, you are an unforgivable ass. _

_Mary. That was Mary._

And she was right.

"Aw, Dean."

"Don't." Dean cut him off sharply, shaking his head and cringing as he did so. "I don't want your pity." Facing John again, he added, "I just needed to see him. See for myself he's okay."

"Okay, I get it," John exhaled wearily, his expression softening, saddened by the doubt reflected in Dean's eyes and by this whole god-awful situation. "I do." More than Dean could know. Wrapping his arms around his son once again, Dean resisted at first before giving in. No doubt he'd found John's wavelength again and John was relieved his kid was riding the wave. The pretense might well have been that he was simply repositioning Dean to get another decent look at Sam but the reality was that John just wanted to comfort his son. He wanted to fix this for Dean, for _both_ his sons, but knew that today it just wasn't possible. All he could do was hold on to _this_ son and try to give him some hope. Softly he asked, "You sure it's gonna be enough?"

"It'll have to be, won't it?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so. . . this time, kiddo." John answered with a hint of encouragement and hope for the future. Anything to counter the resignation in Dean's voice.

He decided then and there that today's trip was only the first of future forays into California. There'd no doubt be more ghosts and mysteries to keep them occupied and, on each hunt, they could swing by and check on Sam. And John resolved just as determinedly that his sons' estrangement would only be a temporary thing. When the time was right and an opportunity presented itself, he'd see his two boys reunited someday.

Whatever it took, he'd make it happen.

To be continued.

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_Additional notes: Sam's residence, its renovation, the street names, the oak trees, and arboretum all do exist at Stanford. However their layout is purely wishful thinking on my part based on student housing surrounding a lovely park in the university town in which I live. _


	9. Ch 9 Armistice

**Armistice**

**Summary:** A hunt gone terribly wrong prompts John's first trip to Stanford. Dean's hurt and hurting, father and son angst ensues. Concluding chapter 9 of 9.

**Rating:** T, language.

**Spoilers:** None, but for John's quote from "In My Time of Dying" shown below.

**Disclaimers:** See my profile page.

**Author's Notes/Comments/Warnings:** Well, the journey's come to an end and it's time to wrap things up. Thanks so very much to Heather for her willingness to help with the medical questions and to Jennie for the grammar and tense clarifications. My questions for both of these ladies were always last minute and the answers always came back quickly. Thanks also to Beki for the reality check which prompted a definite improvement to the story and to Leslie for all her inspiration in the form of articles, chat and those glorious pic spams! Special thanks must go to Penny, my beta-reader, for sinking her teeth into this story and for caring as much about its outcome as I do. Mission accomplished. . . I've got her hooked now on our boys and encourage all of you to watch out for this mega-talented fic-writer's **Supernatural** stories in the hopefully not-too-distant future (eg) .

Lastly, my thanks to all who have read this story, those who have put this story on alert or favorited it and especially those who took time to send feedback. Your comments were flattering, thought-provoking, and encouraging and often simply made my day.

* * *

_"I've made some mistakes. But I've always done the best I could." In My Time of Dying, episode 2.01_

Chapter 9 - Armistice

John made a quick visual sweep of the cabin before closing it up for good. Throwing his weapons bag over his shoulder, he ambled over to the Impala, opened the trunk and loaded the duffel inside. Taking in a deep breath of fresh ocean air, John smiled to himself, more content than he'd been in months.

_So much for money not buying happiness._

Okay, so the beachfront cottage had been one hell of an indulgence, way out of the Winchesters' usual league. But Dean needed some honest to God decent rest and a fleabag motel just wasn't going to cut it this time. So, John Wyman's _American Express _card got another workout and father and son got soft sheets and firm mattresses for a change, satellite TV, an internet connection (for their newly acquired laptop) and, oh yeah, a floor-to-ceiling view of the Pacific Ocean.

After Dean had admitted his subterfuge and that an actual meeting with Sam hadn't been in the cards, the two of them had stayed only about twenty minutes longer at Stanford. They'd watched the party's goings on in muted contemplation, Dean giving the occasional commentary on this geek or that jock, or whether this blonde's or that brunette's breasts were real. He was certain Jessica's were home grown -- John adamantly refused to speculate.

Eventually Dean had gotten quiet, and then his head grew heavy against John's neck and shoulder and that was when John had decided it was time to hit the road.

Without waking Dean, he'd managed to lay him down, his head resting on the pillow next to John once again. The blanket only up to his waist since, despite the shade, the car had warmed up considerably while he'd kept it idling so long. John had intended to pull out then but found it impossible to drive away, to leave Sammy behind. Instead, he'd continued to watch as Sam interacted with his friends, always with Jessica's hand in his, and John had felt both pain and pride. Wishing Mary could have been there to see her baby boy, happy and so obviously in love. If not for the comforting steady rise and fall of Dean's chest beneath his palm, the loss John had felt at that moment would have damn near crippled him.

Fate, or rather a resounding chant for "beer, more beer" intervened though and Sam and a considerably shorter and stockier friend had disappeared through the nearest door to the residence. Shaking off his hypocritical consternation over underage drinking - hell, Sam _was_ just shy of twenty-one, not to mention Dean had been downing beers in pool halls with his old man by the time he was seventeen - John had forced himself to leave. Maneuvering out of the parking space and shifting into _drive_ before allowing himself time to reconsider. Never once looking in the rearview. After all, he and Dean would be back this way again.

Decision already made, John had driven south. Even though Dean had been in dire need of a proper bed, staying in Palo Alto would have felt like picking at an open sore, so John had decided the ninety minutes to Monterey would be their destination. Figuring Dean would get a kick out of its historical importance - that being the legendary rock festival and _not_ its significance during the Mexican-American war - John had been right. Dean had fallen for Monterey. Its pop-culture history combined with the recuperative properties of the ocean air and their peaceful surroundings, not to mention that all important satellite television, all had helped Dean to finally start bouncing back from his concussion.

After Dr. Rowe's imposed additional 24-hour _concussion watch_ had ended, John had ordered Dean to sleep. Typically, his kid had attacked the command with gusto, sleeping straight through for a good sixteen hours. Or thereabouts. John had eventually succumbed to his own fatigue and had woken up a short while after Dean, or so he'd been told.

Dean had spent another day confined to the cottage, though he'd watched TV - a big screen one, much to his delight - from the couch, not the bed. He'd gotten better at sitting up, hadn't needed a ton of support but even now vertigo was still an issue and his head simply felt better having something soft to lean it against.

By the next day, he'd been twitchy - or, more aptly, bitchy - so John had slung an arm around Dean's neck and they'd gone for the first of many walks along the shore. Dean was still tiring quickly and, yeah, so, maybe John's grip that first time out had been excessive the closer they got to the water. What could he say. . . post-concussive vertigo mixed with boardwalks, boulders and high tide made him a little antsy. So sue him.

They'd picked out a couple of those boulders to climb and plant their asses on and, given the fact that his vision still wasn't quite right, Dean probably did overdo with the binoculars. Still, he was relaxed and recovering and since they'd soon be facing a two thousand mile drive, John had allowed it. Hell, he'd enjoyed it. Couldn't remember the last time he'd spent this much time with either of his boys when a hunt wasn't involved.

John had to admit he was itching to get back to the hunt. But Dean was still on the disabled list and needed more time to recover. John wasn't about to deny him that nor abandon him to the call of the hunt. After nearly losing him to Wellington's ghost, he sure as hell wasn't going to beat himself up for enjoying a little quality time. Fact was, it was long overdue.

It was time to get the hell out of Dodge though. Lay John and Dean Wyman's credit cards to rest. John was ready, the Impala packed and all he needed was his co-pilot. He thought about laying on the horn but, in the middle of all this placid nature, it somehow just seemed wrong. He knew where he'd find Dean anyway.

Making his way over to _their_ boulders, John muffled the urge to give Dean shit for climbing up the steepest one on his own. Though he couldn't honestly say at this point whether his motivation was actually worry for Dean or for his own forty-nine year old knees.

Practically hop-scotching his way over to his son, there was no need to announce his arrival as he scrabbled his way over to perch next to Dean. Immediately handing his binoculars to his father, Dean's only greeting was, "Here, look," as he pointed out over the water. "Max out your range. Between one and two o'clock."

Following Dean's instructions, it only took John a second or two to zero in on the pod. The whales were far off but, even at a distance there was no doubt in John's mind what he was looking at. "Orcas," he whispered, and then cleared his throat, embarrassed at the awe he'd heard coming from his own lips.

"Not too shabby, Captain Nolan," Dean replied, laughter in his voice. "_Whale Watch_ says they've been around since Saturday. Finally found 'em."

John turned to Dean then, handing over the binoculars, his son's enthusiasm every bit as enticing as watching a group of Killer Whales. Dean's color was back -- finally. Admittedly, the winds were so brisk at times John could probably put that down to wind burn. But he didn't believe it. Not for a minute. This furlough had done them both a world of good. It may well have been too risky to fuck around with credit card fraud in a place like this - hence why they were about to hightail it - but John had no regrets.

Aside from having to put a premature end to _nature boy's_ whale watching.

"We ready to rock?" Dean suddenly asked, lowering the binoculars and proving once again that he had a sixth sense when it came to his father's thoughts.

Using his boots and butt, John quickly shinnied his way off of the boulder and then turned back to help Dean. Feeling regretful about cutting their last day in Monterey short, that sentiment came through as he answered, "'Fraid so, dude."

Dean just shrugged, packed the binoculars into the case hanging from his neck, then leaned down to grip the hands reaching up for him. They'd done this a few times now; Dean's balance still not what it should have been and getting on the boulder was a hell of a lot easier than the dismount. And every time, John was struck by the memory of another, still brimming with innocence. . .

_"Daddy, I climbed too high." Not yet five and already a daredevil and John, panicked heart slamming against his chest, not yet the man who'd turn misfortune into a training exercise but rather one freely giving of hugs and kisses, reaching up with trembling arms, "'S okay, tiger. Grab on, Daddy won't let you fall. . ."_

Sliding off the big rock now, Dean landed in John's ready grasp and the two of them stood there a minute clinging to each other until Dean's knees locked into place and his equilibrium finally accepted the fact that the only things actually moving in his periphery were the Pacific's waves crashing against the shore.

"Okay, I'm good," Dean declared, still looking a little too unsteady for John's liking.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, thanks," was his reply, though letting go any time soon didn't appear to be in the kid's plans.

Despite John's reservations, he ushered Dean forward anyway. Under John's arm and held close, no way would John let his boy fall. It wasn't until minutes later, when they'd navigated the rocky shore and found themselves on level ground, that John relinquished his hold. Opting to keep Dean's pace though, walking next to him, their shoulders nearly touching.

The newly washed and waxed Impala sat waiting for them in the parking lot, glistening under the sun in all its sleek black glory. "Ah, baby, not yet," Dean said longingly and John damn near expected the Chevy to sigh its own disappointment. It had gone unspoken that the kid wasn't yet ready to drive. John had to admit, even though he still loved driving the Impala, he'd have been more than happy to relinquish the wheel.

John had already opened the driver's door before noticing that Dean wasn't yet making any effort to climb into his side. Dean just stood there, casually leaning against the sedan, his hands clasped together on the Impala's roof as he seemingly took in the sights and scenery all around them. Taking it all in one last time. God knew their next stop would more than likely be a dive.

"Dean?"

"Where we headed?" He abruptly asked, deflecting John's concern.

"Jim's again. Pick up the truck. Figure we can hole up there for a while," John responded then added, pointedly, "You're still on the D.L."

"I'm all right, Dad."

John didn't like the defensiveness and guilt creeping into Dean's voice. "You're not arguing with me, are you?" His tone holding as much teasing humor in it as it did warning.

"No, sir. Not me." The feigned innocence was downright comical. Just the response John had been aiming for.

"Good. Besides, Jim and I need to have a little talk," he added ominously.

A smirk played across Dean's features and John was glad to see it. "You planning on giving him a blast of shit?"

Climbing into the seat, John chuckled at that perceptiveness again. John was sure he'd vowed only to himself that Jim Murphy was going to take his share of heat over the debacle that had been the Wellington hunt. "Oh, yeah. You can count on it," he smiled grimly. Hell, John had no qualms whatsoever about placing blame where it belonged. Dean's insight was only half right this time though. "I've got a lot of things to say to him," John continued, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Dean as he joined his father inside the car, quietly adding, just as they both slammed the doors closed, "Maybe even _thanks_."

"Come again?"

Firing up the engine, John chose not to respond, instead turning to ask Dean, "You wanna take seventeen north or one-fifty-six east?" He was giving Dean the option to drive by Stanford again if he wanted to.

Dean didn't answer immediately. Not with words anyway. His eyes were telling a different story though, reflecting gratitude and, dare John think it, the admiration and devotion he used to always wear on his sleeve before Sammy left. A moment later, as he answered the unspoken _real_ question, the corners of Dean's mouth quirked up then broke into a grin. "Nah, we don't need to draw any attention to the car again this soon. Besides, he's probably naked and plastered in Malibu by now."

John winced. He _so_ did not want to go there.

"You sure?" John asked, changing the subject. Wanting to ensure that Dean knew his offer was genuine. "We're not on the clock."

"Yeah." Another smile appeared, softer this time. "Next time though, huh?"

John mirrored Dean's smile with one of his own. "Sure." Nodding to Dean and to himself, he promised, "Count on it."

Twenty minutes later, driving east on one-fifty-six, fingers tapping the steering wheel in time with _Up Around the Bend_, John heard the telltale slide of weighted fabric against leather. Then felt the heavy thud of Dean's head against his shoulder, the Impala's tranquilizing abilities having worked their magic once again. Unable to contain another grin, John shifted slightly, raising his arm and gently pulling Dean in under it, snug against his side. Kid was going to be embarrassed as hell when he woke up like this.

Not to mention the cricks and kinks they'd likely both end up with.

Tempted to wake Dean, one look at that peaceful face stopped him cold. Dean was looking so much younger these days. Or maybe, without Sammy around to compare him to, John was just finally opening his eyes to what had been there all along. Either way, he decided against disturbing his son's sleep. What was a little muscle strain and stiffness in the grand scheme of things anyway?

With that in mind, John awkwardly reached over to turn CCR down; changing his mind the moment the distinctive opening riff of _Sweet Child o' Mine_ reached his ears. Though John found himself generally and quite contentedly mired in late sixties and seventies rock, it had been a teenage Dean who'd introduced Guns N' Roses to his at first skeptical, then appreciative father.

Listening to the lyrics now and looking down once more at that youthful face, John couldn't help but shake his head and chuckle at the irony of Sister Carol's words back at the hospital. And think about the bittersweet memories the song and the image of a youthful, sleeping Dean evoked. . . _taking him away to that special place, if he stared too long, he knew he'd break down and cry. _

Okay, he had to admit that the whole premise of the song was wrong but, thinking about this last week or so spent with his kid - first hating to look into those pain-filled eyes and then spending these last few utterly enjoyable days of downtime in Monterey, where everything damn near _did_ feel _as fresh as the bright blue sky_ - somehow the song still fit. And knowing that Dean could sleep through a bomb blast right now and not even twitch, instead of turning the radio down, John turned it up just slightly, let his arm drape around Dean again and quietly sang along.

After all, Sammy was safe and happy and Dean was at his father's side, beginning to heal in every sense of the word. What better reasons could John ever have?

-Fin-

July, 2007

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_Additional notes: Lyrics to Sweet Child o' Mine have been borrowed without the permission of Messrs Rose, Slash, Stradlin and Adler. The song was reputedly written in 1987 as a love-song for Erin Everly, Axl Rose's then future wife. Still, the words always make me think of tragic sons and tortured heroes such as Johnny Lancer and Dean Winchester and, in the case of Dean, I can't imagine John thinking otherwise whenever it came on the radio. _

_Kudos to anyone who recognized "Captain Nolan", Richard Harris' character in "Orca". I had to use IMDb to look him up. Dean would remember though, I'm sure of it ;-)._

_Thanks so much to all the readers who have been so supportive of my first multi-chapter Supernatural story. You're all gems! _


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